I would love, one day, to see Ryan Howard hit a home run in person. I’ve had tickets to two games in which he was on the field, and he has hit four homers in those two games. I saw him rounding third base after one of the blasts, and the others I missed entirely.
The reason for these misses is simple: I attended those ballgames with my children. And when you’re at a ballpark with young kids, watching the game is typically not their first priority. I was thinking of this yesterday, as my younger one celebrated her fifth birthday. I stood in the Build-a-Bear Workshop at Menlo Park Mall and watched a bunch of 4- and 5-year-olds place little red hearts inside newly stuffed bears, rabbits and dogs, and I recalled the day a few years ago when that Build-a-Bear store on the main concourse of Citizens Bank Park kept us from watching Mr. Howard land his mighty blows against the Atlanta Braves. In that case, the girls were begging for a stuffed Phillie Phanatic. We listened to their pleas, and eventually they settled for a Phanatic picture book over in the nearby souvenir shop.
Sacrifices. We make an awful lot of them when we enter this crazy racket called parenthood. We give up so much for our kids, and most of it is way harder to take than a rabid baseball fan missing a superstar’s home run. We begin by giving up sleep, one of our life’s necessities, for the sake of our kids. And then our free time becomes their own. Then our financial decisions become ruled by their needs. Eventually, our career paths, home decisions and vacation choices all become heavily influenced by the little ones we have.
There are times when it gets to be too much. Times when we find ourselves wondering when we are going to get a full night’s sleep again. Or when we’re ever going to get that weekend away – and if not that, perhaps just dinner and a movie? And if not that, then maybe just at least one hour in which we can get something done without a little creature climbing up our leg?
It can seem endless sometimes. And for moms, it’s even more difficult, as the young child so often looks to the mother as the lead parent. A trip to the gym? An hour at a coffee shop? A night out with friends? These are fantasies, better suited for the Travel section than our daily planner.
And yet, then these little creatures keep growing, and they find a way to climb not only onto your leg, but into your heart as well. They learn how to smile and welcome another kid to their birthday party. They ask you to turn on your iPod so they can dance to the Ting Tings with you. They ask if they can say grace before dinner. And then they actually eat their green beans. You ask them to flex their biceps, and they show you how strong they’re getting. They ask you to read a book, and together you learn something new together.
Tonight, as Chelsea was getting ready for bed on this birthday night of hers, we sat down at the computer and I showed her other famous people who were born on this date. We talked about Isaac Newton, and Louis Braille, and Floyd Patterson. After we looked at Julia Ormond, and the guy who did Winnie-the-Pooh’s voice in the Disney short films, I showed her my personal favorite of the January 4th celebrity birthdays: Michael Stipe. I played her REM’s pop song “Stand” on the iPod, and she smiled and swayed to the music. We watched the video to “Shiny Happy People,” and she wanted to know who the drummer was. I told her, then segued over to a clip of REM singing that same song, but with the words “Furry Happy Monsters,” for their Sesame Street performance. Chelsea had seen that clip before, and she seemed to find it really cool that this man who sang neat songs for a living was born on her birthday. I resisted the urge to play her “Orange Crush” or any of the darker REM songs, and led my shiny happy person off to bed.
So this little kid is cuddling with me on our couch, letting me teach her about the world, listening to songs I like, and singing along with me. Not such a bad night, actually. Pretty much worth about a million and a half sacrifices. I’ll take it, kid. Maybe next time we can even watch some clips of Ryan Howard’s home runs. You might like it.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Snapshots of a Decade
She wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts / She's cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers
It has been the soundtrack of our post-Christmas days, this bouncy pop song from Taylor Swift. Santa was kind enough to place an iPod Nano beneath the tree, so as soon as Daddy was able to place some songs onto Katie’s tiny orange device, Miss Swift has been gracing every room with her tale of heartbreak. Katie sings along passionately, and her little sister immediately follows suit.
The year in review. The decade in review. No matter what media outlet you’re reading, watching or listening to, you’re being fed a tidy synopsis of the most important events and personalities of the year, as well as the nine that preceded this one. For 2009, we get Taylor Swift, Michael Jackson, Tiger Woods, Derek Jeter and our beloved president, among others. For the ‘00s in review, we get everything from Jeter and Alex Rodriguez to Presidents Bush and Obama. We get Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden, as well as George Clooney, Scarlett Johansson and reality television. We get Nintendo and Apple, as well as Enron and Madoff.
It’s enormously difficult to sum up a decade’s worth of news, notoriety and nostalgia. You can try and capture it all, but you’re bound to miss something. And the truth is, when it comes down to life, we rarely frame our existence inside of ten-year spans. When they talk about taking life “one day at a time” in 12-step programs, they’re on to something. At its best, life is more about snapshots than grand re-caps. It’s made up of moments we can recall with 12-megapixel clarity, and sounds we can hear with Bose-speaker crispness. And the beauty of it is that no one can remember a moment in exactly the same way.
I can feel the Boston Globe special edition in my hands as I rode the North Shore commuter rail home on September 11, 2001, and read of the madness and chaos that had enveloped the city of my birth and changed the world in which I lived. I can see the flickering candles at every intersection in Salem, Mass., three days later, as my neighbors stood vigil on their street corners in a collective show of mourning and respect for their country. I can see the charred pieces of metal still standing in Lower Manhattan when I walked by the Trade Center remains 3½ weeks later.
I can see the glistening brown hair on the head of our first-born child, and I can hear her first cries as she entered the world and nestled in her mother’s arms nearly eight years ago. I can feel the arms of my wife as we embraced after losing a child in utero two years later. More than a year after that, I can see our younger daughter’s calm demeanor develop as she took her first quiet nap in the hospital’s nursery. As I held Katie up and pointed out Chelsea to her, I can still hear Katie’s first words to Chelsea. It was an impromptu song, or perhaps a prayer: “Twinkle, twinkle little star / How I wonder what you are ... ” I can still taste the tears that slid down my cheeks at that moment.
I can feel the strong left hand of my grandfather, as I held him and explained to him that the cancer had spread throughout his body. I can see the tears as he came to grips with the reality of his situation. I can hear his nasally, North Shore-of-Staten Island accent as we talked about the Yankees in those final weeks together. I can hear him greet me with the “Peanuts” nickname he’d always given me: “Hey, Chahlie Brown,” he’d say. “Come in and eat som’in’. I got soup in dee icebox. You can heat it up. And dere’s plenty o’ ginger ale, too.” I can recall sitting down and listening to him talk about my grandmother with love, knowing that he’d be with her again, soon.
I miss my grandfather. And my grandmother, too, as well as my dog and all the other family members I’ve lost in the last 10 years. I remember them in moments that I treasure in the very core of my heart, just as I savor the moments of birth that Amy and I have experienced during this ten-year span. Birth and death, ever intertwined: It was a spring afternoon in 2001 when I leaned forward and whispered in my dying grandmother’s ear that we were expecting. She was unable to respond at this point, but I asked her to watch over the kid. At night, when Katie is drifting off to sleep, I tell her stories of the great-grandmother she never met. She listens, every time.
Snapshots. I bought Amy a camera for Christmas; it was time. In studying up on all the point-and-shoots, I learned that more megapixels do not necessarily make for a better camera. If you’re looking to bring in as much light as possible, sometimes less is more. And when the light comes in, and the angle is right, you’ve got yourself one beautiful picture. An image to hold onto, no matter what the year.
We take stock this time of year, we make resolutions, and we reflect. More than anything, though, we hold onto the pictures that fill the photo albums of our minds and souls. This is where time really does stand still, and where a decade is just a word.
Dreaming ‘bout the day when you wake up and find / That what you're lookin’ for has been here the whole time ...
You said it, Taylor. Crank up that iPod. Happy new year.
It has been the soundtrack of our post-Christmas days, this bouncy pop song from Taylor Swift. Santa was kind enough to place an iPod Nano beneath the tree, so as soon as Daddy was able to place some songs onto Katie’s tiny orange device, Miss Swift has been gracing every room with her tale of heartbreak. Katie sings along passionately, and her little sister immediately follows suit.
The year in review. The decade in review. No matter what media outlet you’re reading, watching or listening to, you’re being fed a tidy synopsis of the most important events and personalities of the year, as well as the nine that preceded this one. For 2009, we get Taylor Swift, Michael Jackson, Tiger Woods, Derek Jeter and our beloved president, among others. For the ‘00s in review, we get everything from Jeter and Alex Rodriguez to Presidents Bush and Obama. We get Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden, as well as George Clooney, Scarlett Johansson and reality television. We get Nintendo and Apple, as well as Enron and Madoff.
It’s enormously difficult to sum up a decade’s worth of news, notoriety and nostalgia. You can try and capture it all, but you’re bound to miss something. And the truth is, when it comes down to life, we rarely frame our existence inside of ten-year spans. When they talk about taking life “one day at a time” in 12-step programs, they’re on to something. At its best, life is more about snapshots than grand re-caps. It’s made up of moments we can recall with 12-megapixel clarity, and sounds we can hear with Bose-speaker crispness. And the beauty of it is that no one can remember a moment in exactly the same way.
I can feel the Boston Globe special edition in my hands as I rode the North Shore commuter rail home on September 11, 2001, and read of the madness and chaos that had enveloped the city of my birth and changed the world in which I lived. I can see the flickering candles at every intersection in Salem, Mass., three days later, as my neighbors stood vigil on their street corners in a collective show of mourning and respect for their country. I can see the charred pieces of metal still standing in Lower Manhattan when I walked by the Trade Center remains 3½ weeks later.
I can see the glistening brown hair on the head of our first-born child, and I can hear her first cries as she entered the world and nestled in her mother’s arms nearly eight years ago. I can feel the arms of my wife as we embraced after losing a child in utero two years later. More than a year after that, I can see our younger daughter’s calm demeanor develop as she took her first quiet nap in the hospital’s nursery. As I held Katie up and pointed out Chelsea to her, I can still hear Katie’s first words to Chelsea. It was an impromptu song, or perhaps a prayer: “Twinkle, twinkle little star / How I wonder what you are ... ” I can still taste the tears that slid down my cheeks at that moment.
I can feel the strong left hand of my grandfather, as I held him and explained to him that the cancer had spread throughout his body. I can see the tears as he came to grips with the reality of his situation. I can hear his nasally, North Shore-of-Staten Island accent as we talked about the Yankees in those final weeks together. I can hear him greet me with the “Peanuts” nickname he’d always given me: “Hey, Chahlie Brown,” he’d say. “Come in and eat som’in’. I got soup in dee icebox. You can heat it up. And dere’s plenty o’ ginger ale, too.” I can recall sitting down and listening to him talk about my grandmother with love, knowing that he’d be with her again, soon.
I miss my grandfather. And my grandmother, too, as well as my dog and all the other family members I’ve lost in the last 10 years. I remember them in moments that I treasure in the very core of my heart, just as I savor the moments of birth that Amy and I have experienced during this ten-year span. Birth and death, ever intertwined: It was a spring afternoon in 2001 when I leaned forward and whispered in my dying grandmother’s ear that we were expecting. She was unable to respond at this point, but I asked her to watch over the kid. At night, when Katie is drifting off to sleep, I tell her stories of the great-grandmother she never met. She listens, every time.
Snapshots. I bought Amy a camera for Christmas; it was time. In studying up on all the point-and-shoots, I learned that more megapixels do not necessarily make for a better camera. If you’re looking to bring in as much light as possible, sometimes less is more. And when the light comes in, and the angle is right, you’ve got yourself one beautiful picture. An image to hold onto, no matter what the year.
We take stock this time of year, we make resolutions, and we reflect. More than anything, though, we hold onto the pictures that fill the photo albums of our minds and souls. This is where time really does stand still, and where a decade is just a word.
Dreaming ‘bout the day when you wake up and find / That what you're lookin’ for has been here the whole time ...
You said it, Taylor. Crank up that iPod. Happy new year.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Crunch Time
The rush is on, for sure. Cars lined up by the dozens to enter the Watchung Square Mall, the Woodbridge Mall, the Menlo Park Mall. Here in Jersey, you don’t get anywhere without having to turn via the jughandle. And when you’ve got a jughandle jam, you’ve got traffic. This is the price you pay for holding out on the shopping ‘til the final days before Christmas in the most shopping-frenzied state in America.
I’d like to say I’m all done, but there’s always this nagging feeling I have when it comes to holiday shopping for my wife, Amy. This is a woman who, in one of our first Christmases together, produced a giant, 4-foot-tall box filled with presents, all of them for me. I have tried to keep up throughout the years, and have given her some thoughtful gifts. But she’s always been a step ahead. And, well, I do have some of those stereotypical guy shopping habits. I am not creative enough (“Wow, such a nice cookie sheet!”), I don’t keep the gifts secretive enough (“Honey, what size pajama top are you again?”), and, shame of shames, I dare to think about the cost of what I’m buying sometimes (“Such a nice book – and look, it’s still got the Borders $3.99 bargain price sticker still on it!”).
Oh, I’ve gotten better over the years, and I think I’ve got some fine presents picked out for her this year. But do I have enough? That simple question puts a lump in my throat and leads me back to the drawing board. Hmm, maybe just one more little thing for her. Can I find that perfect last stocking stuffer?
Let’s start with the Target circular. To use a baseball analogy, Target is the Mark DeRosa of retail. DeRosa, a free agent who’s played in recent years for the Cubs, Cardinals and Indians, can play all three outfield positions and all four infield spots. Target, like DeRosa, can fill all your needs, and he never feels like a cheap fill-in. Where else can I pick up an iPod, a new bicycle, some slippers, a gallon of milk and my prescription from the doctor, all while staring at a bright red bull’s eye? OK, I’m in the CD aisle at Target and I see a stocking stuffer – a Taylor Swift holiday CD for $6.99. But I flip over to the back side of the CD, and I see that it’s only got six songs. I guess that’s why it’s $6.99. And one of those songs is a re-make of a Wham! holiday tune. As a child of the ‘80s, there is one thing I know very well: You cannot improve on Wham!. On to something else.
Kohl’s has a touch-free soap dispenser for $24.99. That’s kind of strange: Wouldn’t a touch-free dispenser make our bathroom feel more like a public restroom? And what happens when the thing doesn’t work? Maybe she’d prefer the $9.99 dual foot massager. But how many people actually use the mechanical massagers they receive for Christmas? And wouldn’t they all prefer the real thing?
Now I’m checking out JCPenney, and my eyes are drawn to the tabletop air hockey game. We both would play that, and we’d really enjoy beating each other. (Nothing more therapeutic for a marriage than destroying your partner in a tabletop sports game.) But where in the world are we going to fit the thing, in between the kids’ American Girl dolls and Webkinz and play-kitchens and art supplies? Ugh … on to something else.
Macy’s: Ice traction slip-ons for $9.99. Very practical, true: But if I’m going to get her something this practical, I’d might as well buy her AA batteries. CVS has “Holiday Pup” from Hallmark, who, for $5.99, will wiggle his ears while “Jingle Bells” plays. Definitely not practical. And definitely not therapeutic. More like maddening.
There are popcorn makers galore, and they’re cute. But don’t the microwaveable bags work just fine? Wii games abound, and many are on sale. But how many do we really have time for in this house? There’s a cute Yankees throw blanket at Modell’s, but it says “27 Time World Series Champions” all over it, and that of course will be outdated by next fall.
And so the search continues. I may find something, or I may not. Either way, I think Amy will be cool with the gifts she finds under the tree. And I, no doubt, will slap my knee at some point in the morning and say, “That was what I should have bought her!” It will hit me.
Just a bit too late.
I’d like to say I’m all done, but there’s always this nagging feeling I have when it comes to holiday shopping for my wife, Amy. This is a woman who, in one of our first Christmases together, produced a giant, 4-foot-tall box filled with presents, all of them for me. I have tried to keep up throughout the years, and have given her some thoughtful gifts. But she’s always been a step ahead. And, well, I do have some of those stereotypical guy shopping habits. I am not creative enough (“Wow, such a nice cookie sheet!”), I don’t keep the gifts secretive enough (“Honey, what size pajama top are you again?”), and, shame of shames, I dare to think about the cost of what I’m buying sometimes (“Such a nice book – and look, it’s still got the Borders $3.99 bargain price sticker still on it!”).
Oh, I’ve gotten better over the years, and I think I’ve got some fine presents picked out for her this year. But do I have enough? That simple question puts a lump in my throat and leads me back to the drawing board. Hmm, maybe just one more little thing for her. Can I find that perfect last stocking stuffer?
Let’s start with the Target circular. To use a baseball analogy, Target is the Mark DeRosa of retail. DeRosa, a free agent who’s played in recent years for the Cubs, Cardinals and Indians, can play all three outfield positions and all four infield spots. Target, like DeRosa, can fill all your needs, and he never feels like a cheap fill-in. Where else can I pick up an iPod, a new bicycle, some slippers, a gallon of milk and my prescription from the doctor, all while staring at a bright red bull’s eye? OK, I’m in the CD aisle at Target and I see a stocking stuffer – a Taylor Swift holiday CD for $6.99. But I flip over to the back side of the CD, and I see that it’s only got six songs. I guess that’s why it’s $6.99. And one of those songs is a re-make of a Wham! holiday tune. As a child of the ‘80s, there is one thing I know very well: You cannot improve on Wham!. On to something else.
Kohl’s has a touch-free soap dispenser for $24.99. That’s kind of strange: Wouldn’t a touch-free dispenser make our bathroom feel more like a public restroom? And what happens when the thing doesn’t work? Maybe she’d prefer the $9.99 dual foot massager. But how many people actually use the mechanical massagers they receive for Christmas? And wouldn’t they all prefer the real thing?
Now I’m checking out JCPenney, and my eyes are drawn to the tabletop air hockey game. We both would play that, and we’d really enjoy beating each other. (Nothing more therapeutic for a marriage than destroying your partner in a tabletop sports game.) But where in the world are we going to fit the thing, in between the kids’ American Girl dolls and Webkinz and play-kitchens and art supplies? Ugh … on to something else.
Macy’s: Ice traction slip-ons for $9.99. Very practical, true: But if I’m going to get her something this practical, I’d might as well buy her AA batteries. CVS has “Holiday Pup” from Hallmark, who, for $5.99, will wiggle his ears while “Jingle Bells” plays. Definitely not practical. And definitely not therapeutic. More like maddening.
There are popcorn makers galore, and they’re cute. But don’t the microwaveable bags work just fine? Wii games abound, and many are on sale. But how many do we really have time for in this house? There’s a cute Yankees throw blanket at Modell’s, but it says “27 Time World Series Champions” all over it, and that of course will be outdated by next fall.
And so the search continues. I may find something, or I may not. Either way, I think Amy will be cool with the gifts she finds under the tree. And I, no doubt, will slap my knee at some point in the morning and say, “That was what I should have bought her!” It will hit me.
Just a bit too late.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Wonderful, George
“You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey, that’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary.”
“I’ll take it.”
Our married names are Warren and Amy Hynes, but this time of year we often call ourselves Mr. and Mrs. Bailey. During the holiday season, we like to slip It’s a Wonderful Life into the DVD player at night, and recite the words to the screenplay along with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed. We’re like a lot of folks in our love for this movie. A film doesn’t get its own board game, holiday ornaments and cookbook unless it’s got a solid fan base.
Granted, Frank Capra’s 63-year-old movie can be a bit corny, dated and silly at times. But it’s also so much more real than 99 percent of the films that strive as mightily as it does for a happy ending. Capra is going to let you leave his film smiling, but he’s also going to fill your eyes with tears as the credits roll. He has made this happen because the film has tapped into a universal feeling in the form of Jimmy Stewart’s George Bailey character.
We can work backward from the film’s final scene, as George finds a message from his guardian angel, Clarence, inside a copy of Tom Sawyer: “Dear George: Remember no man is a failure who has friends.”
These words are needed because George Bailey has nearly given up on his life out of a deep feeling of failure. His career and life are at a crisis point when Clarence arrives, as George is tired of the sacrifices and the unfulfilled dreams he’s endured throughout his life. Of course, he has not yet noticed the incredible impact he’s had on those around him – be it his wife, his children, his brother, his colleagues, or the hundreds of people he has helped through his job. He’s unable to see just how extraordinary a life one man can live, even in a small town, with a drafty old house to call home, and a job supervising a broken-down building and loan operation.
When Clarence shows George what the world would be like had George never lived, the stressed-out man has his epiphany. George realizes how much he’s done, how many he’s helped, and just how wonderful it all really is. He is brought first to a state of delirious joy, then to a moment of speechless wonder. You couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if you tried. Not that we would try; we’re grinning along with the guy.
We know the story, after all. Many of us find ourselves wondering, at times, if we’ve really accomplished much, and if we’ll ever fulfill the lifelong dreams we’ve had. It can be hard to see just how much we’ve done, and just how many lives we’ve touched. It can be difficult to realize that the life we’re living is not equal to the dreams we once set simply because it has been better in some awfully important ways than anything we ever could have dreamed up in our sleepy adolescence.
The George Bailey who lives in the Hynes house has never found himself leaning over a bridge on a cold winter’s night. But he’s had his share of self-deprecation and frustration over the goals not yet achieved, or the material goods not yet affordable. I did not grow up to play shortstop for the New York Yankees, nor have I won a national teacher of the year award quite yet, nor published a dozen books before age 40.
And yet, when I look at my Mary – who, by the way, also plays the role of the angel in this family – I feel grounded and fulfilled in ways that feel an awful lot like the emotions George finds inside of him at the end of the film. When I see our children, and our family, and yes – of course – our many friends, I feel George’s joy along with him. It’s a joy of contentment, and of pride, and of deep gratitude.
“What’d you wish, George?”
“Well, not just one wish – a whole hatful. Mary, I know what I’m going to do
tomorrow, and the next day, and next year, and the year after that.”
Here’s to the power of dreams. But more than that, here’s to the stunning beauty of the dreams we’ve fulfilled but not yet recognized. May the angels of our little worlds reveal them to us always.
“I’ll take it.”
Our married names are Warren and Amy Hynes, but this time of year we often call ourselves Mr. and Mrs. Bailey. During the holiday season, we like to slip It’s a Wonderful Life into the DVD player at night, and recite the words to the screenplay along with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed. We’re like a lot of folks in our love for this movie. A film doesn’t get its own board game, holiday ornaments and cookbook unless it’s got a solid fan base.
Granted, Frank Capra’s 63-year-old movie can be a bit corny, dated and silly at times. But it’s also so much more real than 99 percent of the films that strive as mightily as it does for a happy ending. Capra is going to let you leave his film smiling, but he’s also going to fill your eyes with tears as the credits roll. He has made this happen because the film has tapped into a universal feeling in the form of Jimmy Stewart’s George Bailey character.
We can work backward from the film’s final scene, as George finds a message from his guardian angel, Clarence, inside a copy of Tom Sawyer: “Dear George: Remember no man is a failure who has friends.”
These words are needed because George Bailey has nearly given up on his life out of a deep feeling of failure. His career and life are at a crisis point when Clarence arrives, as George is tired of the sacrifices and the unfulfilled dreams he’s endured throughout his life. Of course, he has not yet noticed the incredible impact he’s had on those around him – be it his wife, his children, his brother, his colleagues, or the hundreds of people he has helped through his job. He’s unable to see just how extraordinary a life one man can live, even in a small town, with a drafty old house to call home, and a job supervising a broken-down building and loan operation.
When Clarence shows George what the world would be like had George never lived, the stressed-out man has his epiphany. George realizes how much he’s done, how many he’s helped, and just how wonderful it all really is. He is brought first to a state of delirious joy, then to a moment of speechless wonder. You couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if you tried. Not that we would try; we’re grinning along with the guy.
We know the story, after all. Many of us find ourselves wondering, at times, if we’ve really accomplished much, and if we’ll ever fulfill the lifelong dreams we’ve had. It can be hard to see just how much we’ve done, and just how many lives we’ve touched. It can be difficult to realize that the life we’re living is not equal to the dreams we once set simply because it has been better in some awfully important ways than anything we ever could have dreamed up in our sleepy adolescence.
The George Bailey who lives in the Hynes house has never found himself leaning over a bridge on a cold winter’s night. But he’s had his share of self-deprecation and frustration over the goals not yet achieved, or the material goods not yet affordable. I did not grow up to play shortstop for the New York Yankees, nor have I won a national teacher of the year award quite yet, nor published a dozen books before age 40.
And yet, when I look at my Mary – who, by the way, also plays the role of the angel in this family – I feel grounded and fulfilled in ways that feel an awful lot like the emotions George finds inside of him at the end of the film. When I see our children, and our family, and yes – of course – our many friends, I feel George’s joy along with him. It’s a joy of contentment, and of pride, and of deep gratitude.
“What’d you wish, George?”
“Well, not just one wish – a whole hatful. Mary, I know what I’m going to do
tomorrow, and the next day, and next year, and the year after that.”
Here’s to the power of dreams. But more than that, here’s to the stunning beauty of the dreams we’ve fulfilled but not yet recognized. May the angels of our little worlds reveal them to us always.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Very Merry
We head out for a drive, and my wife pops in the new Bob Dylan Christmas CD. It’s Amy’s latest attempt at persuading me to listen to holiday music earlier in the season: Buy an album by one of my favorites, and dare me to turn it off. Smart move, of course. The music begins, and it’s a stunning sensory experience – the ol’ man’s craggy voice, playfully croaking out “Here Comes Santa Claus.”
This CD has been widely praised by music critics, but none of the reviews I read were written by a 7-year-old. Katie listens quietly for a moment, then offers her own critique: “Mommy, he sounds like he has to cough.”
Leave it to the babes to put it all in perspective. They are, after all, front and center this time of year. Whether it’s the holiday decorations, the letters to Santa, or – get this – the “Elf on the Shelf” who hops from one perch to another each night in our house, ‘tis the season for bringin’ out the wonder. (And spoiling them to the core as well, but that’s kind of a lost cause, especially when even Bob Dylan’s on board the sleigh.)
We try to let the merriment win out over the stress, but that can be hard when you’ve got an elf on your shelf. When Santa delivered this, it was designed in part to help an older sister who has been struggling in recent years to hold onto the magic. Katie’s had her doubts about the man in red, yet has also expressed a deep desire to believe. So when a little red elf appears on the entertainment center, with an accompanying book explaining that Santa has sent him to keep an eye out, the kid is fascinated at first. Until, of course, she lies down in the dark of her bedroom and sees the little guy’s big, brown eyes staring at her. She panics, and begins to cry.
“Why do we do this to her?” I ask Santa. “Don’t worry,” she says. The next day, Katie has rebounded nicely, naming the elf “Freddie,” declaring that he is a she, and asking us to buy a dress for the thing. Merry, indeed.
The joy of giving has long won out over the joy of receiving for Amy and me, and our favorite moments during this season always involve hosting friends, or shopping for others, or giving gifts. We’ve developed a little tradition in recent years of going out on Black Friday, at about 10 in the morning, to see if we can find a few deals. Shopping on the day after Thanksgiving is a lot like baseball’s free agent market at this time of year – there are a ton of potential purchases out there, some of them at really good prices. But still, you wonder, is it worth the money even if it’s 50 percent off?
We decide that the new Wii “Winter Sports” game, with two motion sensor devices thrown in, is worth $50, and so Amy now knows one of the gifts in her stocking. I tell her that the new Pearl Jam CD for $6.50 is a great deal, so there goes a drop in my stocking. We decide that three dispensers of Bath & Body Works antibacterial soap are not worth standing in a line 25 deep, even with the $10 sales price, especially considering the Centers for Disease Control’s advice against overusing antibacterial products in the home.
They are merry all right in Bath & Body Works – at least a hundred Black Friday shoppers, most of them women, smelling body wash and trying out hand-held massagers. Their voices, when jumbled together, sound something like Charlie Brown’s mother in the old Charles Schulz animated specials: “Whaaa … whaaa .. whaaa.” I take in the bustle for a moment, then begin to feel something akin to Katie’s feelings about Freddie, and bolt for the door.
It’s quieter in the car a day later, as we drive home from a Thanksgiving visit to Amy’s parents. The girls are watching a movie on the DVD player, while I pay attention to brake lights, speed limits and asphalt. As the movie ends, the girls watch the two principal characters kiss. Katie lets out a big ol’ second grade “Ewwwww.” Her 4-year-old sister, on the other hand, has a different take. “Katie, you know, someday we’ll be doing that too,” she says.
I manage, just barely, to keep the car on the road.
And so the holidays begin, with Dylan in need of some Ricola, Freddie popping up all around our house, the gifts piling up in the closet, and Chelsea talking with her sister about making out. She’s been chosen to play Mary for the preschool’s Christmas program, and the charming young boy who’s playing Joseph has been Chelsea’s “boyfriend” now for more than a year. She claimed him right away, and will no sooner give him up than she’ll relinquish the blanket she carries with her each day.
Should we worry about lovebirds in the stable? No, not yet. As she practiced her entrance into the church today, Chelsea happily skipped through the sanctuary, up to the manger. The preschool director asked: Chelsea, isn’t Mary supposed to be pregnant at this point? Chelsea nodded. True enough. Maybe a soft gallop next time.
It’s just so hard to hold back the merriment.
This CD has been widely praised by music critics, but none of the reviews I read were written by a 7-year-old. Katie listens quietly for a moment, then offers her own critique: “Mommy, he sounds like he has to cough.”
Leave it to the babes to put it all in perspective. They are, after all, front and center this time of year. Whether it’s the holiday decorations, the letters to Santa, or – get this – the “Elf on the Shelf” who hops from one perch to another each night in our house, ‘tis the season for bringin’ out the wonder. (And spoiling them to the core as well, but that’s kind of a lost cause, especially when even Bob Dylan’s on board the sleigh.)
We try to let the merriment win out over the stress, but that can be hard when you’ve got an elf on your shelf. When Santa delivered this, it was designed in part to help an older sister who has been struggling in recent years to hold onto the magic. Katie’s had her doubts about the man in red, yet has also expressed a deep desire to believe. So when a little red elf appears on the entertainment center, with an accompanying book explaining that Santa has sent him to keep an eye out, the kid is fascinated at first. Until, of course, she lies down in the dark of her bedroom and sees the little guy’s big, brown eyes staring at her. She panics, and begins to cry.
“Why do we do this to her?” I ask Santa. “Don’t worry,” she says. The next day, Katie has rebounded nicely, naming the elf “Freddie,” declaring that he is a she, and asking us to buy a dress for the thing. Merry, indeed.
The joy of giving has long won out over the joy of receiving for Amy and me, and our favorite moments during this season always involve hosting friends, or shopping for others, or giving gifts. We’ve developed a little tradition in recent years of going out on Black Friday, at about 10 in the morning, to see if we can find a few deals. Shopping on the day after Thanksgiving is a lot like baseball’s free agent market at this time of year – there are a ton of potential purchases out there, some of them at really good prices. But still, you wonder, is it worth the money even if it’s 50 percent off?
We decide that the new Wii “Winter Sports” game, with two motion sensor devices thrown in, is worth $50, and so Amy now knows one of the gifts in her stocking. I tell her that the new Pearl Jam CD for $6.50 is a great deal, so there goes a drop in my stocking. We decide that three dispensers of Bath & Body Works antibacterial soap are not worth standing in a line 25 deep, even with the $10 sales price, especially considering the Centers for Disease Control’s advice against overusing antibacterial products in the home.
They are merry all right in Bath & Body Works – at least a hundred Black Friday shoppers, most of them women, smelling body wash and trying out hand-held massagers. Their voices, when jumbled together, sound something like Charlie Brown’s mother in the old Charles Schulz animated specials: “Whaaa … whaaa .. whaaa.” I take in the bustle for a moment, then begin to feel something akin to Katie’s feelings about Freddie, and bolt for the door.
It’s quieter in the car a day later, as we drive home from a Thanksgiving visit to Amy’s parents. The girls are watching a movie on the DVD player, while I pay attention to brake lights, speed limits and asphalt. As the movie ends, the girls watch the two principal characters kiss. Katie lets out a big ol’ second grade “Ewwwww.” Her 4-year-old sister, on the other hand, has a different take. “Katie, you know, someday we’ll be doing that too,” she says.
I manage, just barely, to keep the car on the road.
And so the holidays begin, with Dylan in need of some Ricola, Freddie popping up all around our house, the gifts piling up in the closet, and Chelsea talking with her sister about making out. She’s been chosen to play Mary for the preschool’s Christmas program, and the charming young boy who’s playing Joseph has been Chelsea’s “boyfriend” now for more than a year. She claimed him right away, and will no sooner give him up than she’ll relinquish the blanket she carries with her each day.
Should we worry about lovebirds in the stable? No, not yet. As she practiced her entrance into the church today, Chelsea happily skipped through the sanctuary, up to the manger. The preschool director asked: Chelsea, isn’t Mary supposed to be pregnant at this point? Chelsea nodded. True enough. Maybe a soft gallop next time.
It’s just so hard to hold back the merriment.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Sure Things
The baseball news was predictable this week, as the two most dominant players of 2009 were awarded Most Valuable Player honors for their respective leagues. Albert Pujols and Joe Mauer are quite likely two of the best players many of us will ever see on the baseball field, and both were more consistently brilliant this year than in any other. There are few sure things in baseball, but Pujols and Mauer are two of them.
Sure things. We take comfort in those two words – the idea that there are things we can rely on, day in and day out, never wavering in their constancy. For Chelsea, our 4-year-old, there have been several sure things in her life – the parents, big sister and grandparents who care for her, the white house she calls home, and the little preschool she attends every weekday.
Oh, and one other thing – there has been Blankie.
Every day since she was first able to hold something in her hand, Chelsea has carried around the white blanket that she was wrapped in on the day she was born. It’s a standard maternity ward blanket, white with yellow ducks, pink and blue chicks, and little green hearts. For three years, Chelsea’s blanket remained in rather good shape. We’d wash it every so often, and while it began to look weathered, it remained intact.
Three years, apparently, was all that this cotton material could take. For nearly two years now, we’ve watched Blankie literally fall apart in Chelsea’s hands. It went from a full-size blanket to a brownish, cotton thing the size of a hand towel, to an even browner piece the size of a handkerchief, to the small, fabric-sample-size remnant she carries around today. She tucks it together with a red ponytail holder. It is so brown that I’ve taken to calling it “Raggie” and declaring it a health-code violation. Chelsea just smiles, takes another sniff of her sure thing, and holds it tight.
Until Sunday, that is. Sometime between the time we got home from church and the time we went to bed, Blankie became misplaced. And, unlike the countless other times when we’ve searched for and found the little cloth, this time Chelsea’s friend was hiding for real. Chelsea said she knew we’d find him, and she agreed to sleep with a backup blanket she has dubbed “Cheesie.” She held this replacement friend in her hands, with its own pattern of yellow ducks, stars and hearts. But it wasn’t the same.
Monday came and went. No Blankie. Tuesday arrived, and still nothing. Meanwhile, Mauer and Pujols were picking up their sure-thing trophies, comforting the fans in Minnesota and Missouri.
But there is only one MVP in Chelsea’s life, and considering how much it’s meant to her she was surprisingly calm about it all. On Tuesday, when she decided to color, she pulled out her bin of crayons. And there, nestled among the Crayola rainbow, she saw her friend. She lifted Blankie up, smelled him, and smiled. “He smells like crayons,” she said to me. Usually one to avoid sniffing that dirty thing, I found myself taking a quick sniff. Crayons, indeed.
As we gather with our families and friends this Thanksgiving, here’s a toast to the sure things. Here’s to the people, the pets, the places, and, yes, even the blankies that are there for us. We’re not always as lovable as we could be every day, and sometimes we’re worried, or afraid, or sad. It’s at those times when a little comfort is all we need. A hug. A kind word. A sunset. A sniff of old cotton.
A reassurance. Even if it’s weathered and worn and smelling of crayons.
Sure things. We take comfort in those two words – the idea that there are things we can rely on, day in and day out, never wavering in their constancy. For Chelsea, our 4-year-old, there have been several sure things in her life – the parents, big sister and grandparents who care for her, the white house she calls home, and the little preschool she attends every weekday.
Oh, and one other thing – there has been Blankie.
Every day since she was first able to hold something in her hand, Chelsea has carried around the white blanket that she was wrapped in on the day she was born. It’s a standard maternity ward blanket, white with yellow ducks, pink and blue chicks, and little green hearts. For three years, Chelsea’s blanket remained in rather good shape. We’d wash it every so often, and while it began to look weathered, it remained intact.
Three years, apparently, was all that this cotton material could take. For nearly two years now, we’ve watched Blankie literally fall apart in Chelsea’s hands. It went from a full-size blanket to a brownish, cotton thing the size of a hand towel, to an even browner piece the size of a handkerchief, to the small, fabric-sample-size remnant she carries around today. She tucks it together with a red ponytail holder. It is so brown that I’ve taken to calling it “Raggie” and declaring it a health-code violation. Chelsea just smiles, takes another sniff of her sure thing, and holds it tight.
Until Sunday, that is. Sometime between the time we got home from church and the time we went to bed, Blankie became misplaced. And, unlike the countless other times when we’ve searched for and found the little cloth, this time Chelsea’s friend was hiding for real. Chelsea said she knew we’d find him, and she agreed to sleep with a backup blanket she has dubbed “Cheesie.” She held this replacement friend in her hands, with its own pattern of yellow ducks, stars and hearts. But it wasn’t the same.
Monday came and went. No Blankie. Tuesday arrived, and still nothing. Meanwhile, Mauer and Pujols were picking up their sure-thing trophies, comforting the fans in Minnesota and Missouri.
But there is only one MVP in Chelsea’s life, and considering how much it’s meant to her she was surprisingly calm about it all. On Tuesday, when she decided to color, she pulled out her bin of crayons. And there, nestled among the Crayola rainbow, she saw her friend. She lifted Blankie up, smelled him, and smiled. “He smells like crayons,” she said to me. Usually one to avoid sniffing that dirty thing, I found myself taking a quick sniff. Crayons, indeed.
As we gather with our families and friends this Thanksgiving, here’s a toast to the sure things. Here’s to the people, the pets, the places, and, yes, even the blankies that are there for us. We’re not always as lovable as we could be every day, and sometimes we’re worried, or afraid, or sad. It’s at those times when a little comfort is all we need. A hug. A kind word. A sunset. A sniff of old cotton.
A reassurance. Even if it’s weathered and worn and smelling of crayons.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Fantasy Farmers
For 30 minutes each day during the baseball season, I sit in front of a computer and completely lose myself in a world of make-believe. I set my lineups, add and drop players, make trade offers. I read up on baseball-player news, and I strategize. All of this, of course, involves an imaginary, fantasy-baseball team that exists solely on the Internet. The players are real, of course, but they don’t really play for me. I’m trying to craft a team that will perform better than the teams run by a dozen other grown adults, who are also giving a half-hour of their life to this child’s play.
When I do this, I experience an odd mixture of glee and guilt. I’m excited because this is genuinely fun for me, as it is for the many millions of fans worldwide who are quickly turning fantasy sports into the real sports pastime. And yet, I also feel some pronounced guilt, since there are obviously a billion more productive things I could be doing with my life during that half-hour. Sure, we all need some time to decompress, and many of us do so on-line. But I could be on freerice.com, or reading important news stories, or e-mailing a friend.
The strongest guilt, though, has always come from the other adult who lives in this household. My wife has perfected the look – head cocked to the side, eyebrows pursed, a half-smile on her lips. “What are you doing?” she asks while I click and type furiously over my cereal bowl. “Didn’t we say we were going to church together this morning?”
“Um-hum,” I mumble. “Just give me a second, and I’ll be right there.”
Now the arms are folded in front of her, and she’s giving me the nod. “Sure,” she says. “Whatever you say.”
We get to church late, and now I’m really feeling guilty. She doesn’t say a word, making it even worse.
So this is how it’s gone for five years. Every winter I tell her that I’m going to quit the fantasy baseball scene next year, and she assures me that I won’t. March comes, and she’s right. It all begins again, and that odd mixture of feelings comes back to me while I peer at my lineup over that cereal bowl.
But no more. Next year, without question, will be different. I say this not because I plan to cease playing fantasy baseball. Quite the opposite. What I’m saying is that I’ve finally been relieved of the marital guilt.
The reason is simple: My wife raises fantasy livestock. She’s planting make-believe sunflowers. She’s up to level 25.
We’ve had some odd crazes in the history of American pop culture, but FarmVille is definitely up there among the best of them. According to a New York Times article a few weeks ago, more than 62 million people have signed up to play this Facebook application, which allows its players to tend to a virtual farm all their own. Zynga, the company that created FarmVille, told the Times that 22 million people log into their FarmVille account at least once a day.
When I check my Facebook page, I see these bulky animal and crop drawings, with messages stating that friends of mine are looking for lost cows, or have found wild turkeys, or just discovered mystery eggs, or simply want to say “Thank You” to all their FarmVille friends. It is agricultural madness. It is Atari meets Facebook meets Amish Country.
We should have seen it coming, of course. Many of the adults who are playing this game grew up with such odd passions as Cabbage Patch Kids, Q*bert and the Smurfs. We know that strange fads make life more fun. We’ve kept our Rubik’s Cubes and our Tickle Me Elmo’s, thank you, and we’re on the lookout for the next strangely obsessive thing.
It would be fine if only Amy checked her farm once a day. I would be totally cool with that. However, it’s become a challenge just to talk with her once the girls are asleep. Really, how could you bother to converse with your husband when there are blueberries to harvest, and animals to feed, and hay bales to arrange in the design of a Christmas tree?
You could say that this is karma, and that I’m getting what I deserve after all those hours of fantasy baseball. You’d be right, of course, but I see it differently. I envision a conversation this April, when I’m on the computer one Saturday, and she gives me that look again.
“Honey, are you checking your fantasy baseball?” she’ll ask.
“Yup,” I’ll say.
“Can you get off the computer? We’ve got things to do.”
“Nope.”
“Are you serious? You’re really going to play that all day?”
“As long as I want to.”
“Come on – let’s get a move on.”
“Sorry, babe,” I’ll say. “But you buy fantasy pigs in your spare time. You harvest fantasy corn. You earn fantasy money when your fantasy chickens lay fantasy eggs. You inform your friends that fantasy ugly ducklings have shown up on your fantasy farm.
“So if you don’t mind, I’m going to take just a few more minutes with my little fantasy baseball, where at least the players are real.”
She’ll stare at me for a minute. “Are you done?” she’ll ask.
“I am,” I’ll say, smiling to myself. Patting myself on the back. Little fist-pump beneath the desk.
She’ll continue: “Let’s go.”
I’ll lower my head, and click hibernate. “OK,” I’ll mumble.
The guilt again. Damn farmers.
When I do this, I experience an odd mixture of glee and guilt. I’m excited because this is genuinely fun for me, as it is for the many millions of fans worldwide who are quickly turning fantasy sports into the real sports pastime. And yet, I also feel some pronounced guilt, since there are obviously a billion more productive things I could be doing with my life during that half-hour. Sure, we all need some time to decompress, and many of us do so on-line. But I could be on freerice.com, or reading important news stories, or e-mailing a friend.
The strongest guilt, though, has always come from the other adult who lives in this household. My wife has perfected the look – head cocked to the side, eyebrows pursed, a half-smile on her lips. “What are you doing?” she asks while I click and type furiously over my cereal bowl. “Didn’t we say we were going to church together this morning?”
“Um-hum,” I mumble. “Just give me a second, and I’ll be right there.”
Now the arms are folded in front of her, and she’s giving me the nod. “Sure,” she says. “Whatever you say.”
We get to church late, and now I’m really feeling guilty. She doesn’t say a word, making it even worse.
So this is how it’s gone for five years. Every winter I tell her that I’m going to quit the fantasy baseball scene next year, and she assures me that I won’t. March comes, and she’s right. It all begins again, and that odd mixture of feelings comes back to me while I peer at my lineup over that cereal bowl.
But no more. Next year, without question, will be different. I say this not because I plan to cease playing fantasy baseball. Quite the opposite. What I’m saying is that I’ve finally been relieved of the marital guilt.
The reason is simple: My wife raises fantasy livestock. She’s planting make-believe sunflowers. She’s up to level 25.
We’ve had some odd crazes in the history of American pop culture, but FarmVille is definitely up there among the best of them. According to a New York Times article a few weeks ago, more than 62 million people have signed up to play this Facebook application, which allows its players to tend to a virtual farm all their own. Zynga, the company that created FarmVille, told the Times that 22 million people log into their FarmVille account at least once a day.
When I check my Facebook page, I see these bulky animal and crop drawings, with messages stating that friends of mine are looking for lost cows, or have found wild turkeys, or just discovered mystery eggs, or simply want to say “Thank You” to all their FarmVille friends. It is agricultural madness. It is Atari meets Facebook meets Amish Country.
We should have seen it coming, of course. Many of the adults who are playing this game grew up with such odd passions as Cabbage Patch Kids, Q*bert and the Smurfs. We know that strange fads make life more fun. We’ve kept our Rubik’s Cubes and our Tickle Me Elmo’s, thank you, and we’re on the lookout for the next strangely obsessive thing.
It would be fine if only Amy checked her farm once a day. I would be totally cool with that. However, it’s become a challenge just to talk with her once the girls are asleep. Really, how could you bother to converse with your husband when there are blueberries to harvest, and animals to feed, and hay bales to arrange in the design of a Christmas tree?
You could say that this is karma, and that I’m getting what I deserve after all those hours of fantasy baseball. You’d be right, of course, but I see it differently. I envision a conversation this April, when I’m on the computer one Saturday, and she gives me that look again.
“Honey, are you checking your fantasy baseball?” she’ll ask.
“Yup,” I’ll say.
“Can you get off the computer? We’ve got things to do.”
“Nope.”
“Are you serious? You’re really going to play that all day?”
“As long as I want to.”
“Come on – let’s get a move on.”
“Sorry, babe,” I’ll say. “But you buy fantasy pigs in your spare time. You harvest fantasy corn. You earn fantasy money when your fantasy chickens lay fantasy eggs. You inform your friends that fantasy ugly ducklings have shown up on your fantasy farm.
“So if you don’t mind, I’m going to take just a few more minutes with my little fantasy baseball, where at least the players are real.”
She’ll stare at me for a minute. “Are you done?” she’ll ask.
“I am,” I’ll say, smiling to myself. Patting myself on the back. Little fist-pump beneath the desk.
She’ll continue: “Let’s go.”
I’ll lower my head, and click hibernate. “OK,” I’ll mumble.
The guilt again. Damn farmers.
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