Well, the excitement never ceases. I have two reasons to smile today, and here they are in order of importance (least to most). First, I mentioned my newfound interest in weblogging to an acquaintance (whom I hope to upgrade to "friend") and she responded with a deluge of information, websites, ideas, and actual code. Turns out she's an expert on such things. And she's just taught me how to include links in my text, a MAJOR boost to my capabilities. So now I know two experts!
The other smile happened early this morning, 6:30 am to be exact. I was still mostly asleep, and had slept quite well. It was cold outside, and I was warm inside, which are wonderful conditions as far as I'm concerned. My head was deep in my pillow and the quilt was up to my ears. I dimly heard the phone ring.
The phone in our bedroom doesn't work, but the answering machine does, so if we are sitting up there we generally just listen to people talk and then go downstairs to call them back. Well, the voice on the phone came from 620 miles away to proudly tell me that Ethan Lee was born just 10 1/2 hours earlier, and that mom, son, and presumably father were healthy and happy.
I remember smiling broadly, and snuggling deeper into the pillow before drifting off again. I knew that there would be time to call later, that Mark wouldn't mind me not jumping out onto a cold floor at 6:30 to say congratulations. I had no worries; the sound of his voice said all was well. Better than well. Perfect.
But I couldn't remember exactly why I smiled until later.
I smiled because Dora was safe and the baby was here and my friend is happy.
I smiled because I have two of my own, and I love them.
I smiled because miracles like this can (and do) take place every day, and no matter how often it happens, it's still a miracle.
I smiled because it was cold outside and I was warm inside, and my wife was next to me, and my children were sleeping, and my best friend was happier than he's ever been in his life, and for just one solitary moment, every single thing was absolutely perfect.
Welcome to the world, Ethan. Have a nice stay.
Friday, January 30, 2004
Thursday, January 29, 2004
That knowing smile
What a weird week I’m having. First of all, I haven’t written in quite a while, which nearly blows my New Year’s resolution within the first month. Then, three out of the five school days this week were more or less cancelled due to snow. (I say more or less because on Tuesday we had a late opening followed by an early dismissal. So basically, I came in for lunch.) I have a friend whose wife is a few days overdue with their first child, and it being their first, they are probably completely panicked, not realizing that *nobody*’s baby delivers on time.
This reminds me, I’m definitely turning into my parents. See, Dora called my wife, basically saying, “Today’s my due date and there’s no baby….what’s wrong?!” While Christine was consoling her on the phone, I was standing by with that smile on my face. I’m sure you know which one. It’s the same one your parents gave you when you swore to them that “when I’m a dad, I’m gonna let my kids stay out as late as they want!”. It’s the slow, not-quite-sad grin that comes with a little shake of the head, with the unsaid words left hanging in the air like the sword of Damolces: “You just wait. You’ll see what life’s *really* like.”
And of course, now that I’m starting to know better, my parents have switched from the faint “You’ll find out for yourself” smile to the ear-to-ear “I told you so” grin. I can’t argue with them.. they did tell me so. The only recourse I can take is to smile at my friends, shake my head, and think, “Oh, they’ll find out soon enough.”
And there’s plenty of opportunity for this. Off the top of my head, I have 8 close friends who are either expecting or have children under 1 year old. It must be something in the water. A great side effect of all these little ones is that they act as a natural birth control. If we want a baby fix, all we have to do is volunteer to babysit.
Back to learning how to be a parent. No one’s written an instruction manual for this. Oh, there are plenty of self-proclaimed experts, and a family member of ours keeps sending us books by them, by many of them contradict the others, and I have serious doubts as to how many of them actually have children themselves. Or at least wait until they’ve grown and gone before writing the book. Maybe I should write one myself.
Another benefit of experience as a parent is learning to appreciate Bill Cosby more. Oh, sure, his stand-up routines were funny when I was a kid, but now they’re downright hilarious because they are *true*. He really hits the nail on the head, and really gets to the bottom of what parenthood is like. I have actually said to my children, “How many times have I told you….?”, as if I expect them to keep count. And upon arriving home one day, I asked my daughter “What do you think you are doing?”, when it was perfectly obvious that she was shoving a blue magic marker up her nostrils. (I then compounded the problem by asking her “Why?”. She looked at me as if I were a moron and the answer was self-evident. I never did figure it out.)
This reminds me, I’m definitely turning into my parents. See, Dora called my wife, basically saying, “Today’s my due date and there’s no baby….what’s wrong?!” While Christine was consoling her on the phone, I was standing by with that smile on my face. I’m sure you know which one. It’s the same one your parents gave you when you swore to them that “when I’m a dad, I’m gonna let my kids stay out as late as they want!”. It’s the slow, not-quite-sad grin that comes with a little shake of the head, with the unsaid words left hanging in the air like the sword of Damolces: “You just wait. You’ll see what life’s *really* like.”
And of course, now that I’m starting to know better, my parents have switched from the faint “You’ll find out for yourself” smile to the ear-to-ear “I told you so” grin. I can’t argue with them.. they did tell me so. The only recourse I can take is to smile at my friends, shake my head, and think, “Oh, they’ll find out soon enough.”
And there’s plenty of opportunity for this. Off the top of my head, I have 8 close friends who are either expecting or have children under 1 year old. It must be something in the water. A great side effect of all these little ones is that they act as a natural birth control. If we want a baby fix, all we have to do is volunteer to babysit.
Back to learning how to be a parent. No one’s written an instruction manual for this. Oh, there are plenty of self-proclaimed experts, and a family member of ours keeps sending us books by them, by many of them contradict the others, and I have serious doubts as to how many of them actually have children themselves. Or at least wait until they’ve grown and gone before writing the book. Maybe I should write one myself.
Another benefit of experience as a parent is learning to appreciate Bill Cosby more. Oh, sure, his stand-up routines were funny when I was a kid, but now they’re downright hilarious because they are *true*. He really hits the nail on the head, and really gets to the bottom of what parenthood is like. I have actually said to my children, “How many times have I told you….?”, as if I expect them to keep count. And upon arriving home one day, I asked my daughter “What do you think you are doing?”, when it was perfectly obvious that she was shoving a blue magic marker up her nostrils. (I then compounded the problem by asking her “Why?”. She looked at me as if I were a moron and the answer was self-evident. I never did figure it out.)
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Big ol' thanks
I've mentioned my best friend in the entire world, Mark Pilgrim. Well, thanks to him, I have now figured out how to add links to my weblog. So, check out his site, diveintomark. (And to humor me, get there by clicking on the link at the top right of my page!)
Friday, January 16, 2004
Nature abhors a vacuum. So does Alex.
My son destroyed our vacuum cleaner last week. What’s even more amazing is that he did it practically single-handedly and with a bare minimum of effort.
My son loves goldfish. No, I mean the edible kind. No, not those, I mean goldfish crackers. You know, these little cheesy things vaguely shaped like a four-year-olds impression of what a fish should look like. They come in bags that are refreshingly old-fashioned. They are made of heavy paper stock, nicely lined with foil, only wrapped once (as opposed to the loaves of bread I buy, which have been known to have been wrapped three times for the consumer’s convenience), and have a nice simple design on the outside. They appeal to adults and children alike. You can try to eat just a few, but you’re not likely to succeed. In fact, the only way in which they are not a traditional, old-fashioned snack food is in the price. They cost about $9.00 an ounce. Which is why my son loves them so much.
To add insult to the injury done to my wallet, what he loves most about them is their ability to be easily crushed into seventeen million tiny pieces and pressed into the Oriental rug my wife loves so much. He does this every chance he gets.
Alex did this last week. How he had time, I don’t know. There are only four rooms on the first floor of our house, and two of them are open to each other. My wife must have been in one of them. And probably, she was moving around between them. But toddlers have this uncanny ability to know that once you walk out of a room, they have approximately 7.3 seconds to knock over the water glass, smear chocolate on the TV screen, stick peanut butter in the VCR, and shave the cat. What’s more, all this generally takes them only 6.8 seconds, giving them a full half-second to adopt an innocent “Who, me?” expression just before you return.
So my wife gets out the vacuum. It’s a stand-up, with more attachments available than the space shuttle. There’s the part that gets under the furniture. There’s the part that gets behind the bookcase. There’s the part that gets the cobwebs out of the corners of the ceiling. And there’s at least two parts for which I haven’t yet figured out a function. (Although one is good for getting marjoram out of a toddler’s hair. I know this from experience.)
This is not my mother’s vacuum. My mother’s vacuum laid down on the floor, had a retractable cord (which, if you weren’t careful, would whip you when it withdrew), was loud enough to hear down the block, and only had one attachment. As near as my brother and I could figure, the only use for this attachment was to chase my sister with and make her think we were going to suck her up with the vacuum cleaner. It was a mean vacuum. It could suck up marbles. It could probably suck up tennis balls, if we had thought of it. Nothing short of half a pound of PlayDoh would have jammed that vacuum. In comparison, ours is a 90-pound wimp.
So, my wife is vacuuming crumbled goldfish off the floor, using attachment number 7, when my son distracts her. Neither of us knows how he did this, but when she turned her head to look at him, she ran over a sock with the vacuum.
My son hates to wear his socks. He leaves them all over the house. This one he cleverly left in the path of the vacuum. I say cleverly, because he also hates the sound of the vacuum cleaner, and so I suspect deliberate sabotage.
The vacuum grumbled, and grinded, and did its best to suck up the sock. Its best wasn’t good enough. With a hack and a wheeze, it died. When I got home, the house smelled of burnt electronics. It’s not a very pleasant smell.
So now we need a new vacuum. I’m spending a few days thinking about ways to pay for it, where to get one, how much to spend, and so on. And as I ruminate, I walk into my house, and immediately detect the smell of burnt electronics. And there’s my wife.
“We have a problem with the dryer.”
My son loves goldfish. No, I mean the edible kind. No, not those, I mean goldfish crackers. You know, these little cheesy things vaguely shaped like a four-year-olds impression of what a fish should look like. They come in bags that are refreshingly old-fashioned. They are made of heavy paper stock, nicely lined with foil, only wrapped once (as opposed to the loaves of bread I buy, which have been known to have been wrapped three times for the consumer’s convenience), and have a nice simple design on the outside. They appeal to adults and children alike. You can try to eat just a few, but you’re not likely to succeed. In fact, the only way in which they are not a traditional, old-fashioned snack food is in the price. They cost about $9.00 an ounce. Which is why my son loves them so much.
To add insult to the injury done to my wallet, what he loves most about them is their ability to be easily crushed into seventeen million tiny pieces and pressed into the Oriental rug my wife loves so much. He does this every chance he gets.
Alex did this last week. How he had time, I don’t know. There are only four rooms on the first floor of our house, and two of them are open to each other. My wife must have been in one of them. And probably, she was moving around between them. But toddlers have this uncanny ability to know that once you walk out of a room, they have approximately 7.3 seconds to knock over the water glass, smear chocolate on the TV screen, stick peanut butter in the VCR, and shave the cat. What’s more, all this generally takes them only 6.8 seconds, giving them a full half-second to adopt an innocent “Who, me?” expression just before you return.
So my wife gets out the vacuum. It’s a stand-up, with more attachments available than the space shuttle. There’s the part that gets under the furniture. There’s the part that gets behind the bookcase. There’s the part that gets the cobwebs out of the corners of the ceiling. And there’s at least two parts for which I haven’t yet figured out a function. (Although one is good for getting marjoram out of a toddler’s hair. I know this from experience.)
This is not my mother’s vacuum. My mother’s vacuum laid down on the floor, had a retractable cord (which, if you weren’t careful, would whip you when it withdrew), was loud enough to hear down the block, and only had one attachment. As near as my brother and I could figure, the only use for this attachment was to chase my sister with and make her think we were going to suck her up with the vacuum cleaner. It was a mean vacuum. It could suck up marbles. It could probably suck up tennis balls, if we had thought of it. Nothing short of half a pound of PlayDoh would have jammed that vacuum. In comparison, ours is a 90-pound wimp.
So, my wife is vacuuming crumbled goldfish off the floor, using attachment number 7, when my son distracts her. Neither of us knows how he did this, but when she turned her head to look at him, she ran over a sock with the vacuum.
My son hates to wear his socks. He leaves them all over the house. This one he cleverly left in the path of the vacuum. I say cleverly, because he also hates the sound of the vacuum cleaner, and so I suspect deliberate sabotage.
The vacuum grumbled, and grinded, and did its best to suck up the sock. Its best wasn’t good enough. With a hack and a wheeze, it died. When I got home, the house smelled of burnt electronics. It’s not a very pleasant smell.
So now we need a new vacuum. I’m spending a few days thinking about ways to pay for it, where to get one, how much to spend, and so on. And as I ruminate, I walk into my house, and immediately detect the smell of burnt electronics. And there’s my wife.
“We have a problem with the dryer.”
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Sam, I am.
I am a 33-year old, lower-middle-class white male.
I am a teacher of science.
I am also a student.
I am a father of two.
I am a friend to my friends.
I am a colleague.
I am creative, intelligent, stubborn, and patient.
I am sometimes thoughtless.
I am often lazy.
I am a reader.
I am a son and a brother and an uncle and a father and a cousin and a husband and a grandson.
I am a carbon-based life-form, composed of billions of individual cells working together in a miraculous mechanism that keeps my heart beating, my blood flowing, my lungs inflating, and my neurons firing.
I am tired.
I am lousy at balancing my checkbook.
I am ignorant of the rules of hockey.
I am wondering why I am here.
I am pretty sure there’s a reason.
I am in love with my wife.
I am a Jew.
I am proud of my friends.
I am fascinated by watching people learn.
I am of average height, average weight, average build, average income, average intelligence, and average ability.
I am not average.
I am unique.
I am.
I am a teacher of science.
I am also a student.
I am a father of two.
I am a friend to my friends.
I am a colleague.
I am creative, intelligent, stubborn, and patient.
I am sometimes thoughtless.
I am often lazy.
I am a reader.
I am a son and a brother and an uncle and a father and a cousin and a husband and a grandson.
I am a carbon-based life-form, composed of billions of individual cells working together in a miraculous mechanism that keeps my heart beating, my blood flowing, my lungs inflating, and my neurons firing.
I am tired.
I am lousy at balancing my checkbook.
I am ignorant of the rules of hockey.
I am wondering why I am here.
I am pretty sure there’s a reason.
I am in love with my wife.
I am a Jew.
I am proud of my friends.
I am fascinated by watching people learn.
I am of average height, average weight, average build, average income, average intelligence, and average ability.
I am not average.
I am unique.
I am.
Monday, January 12, 2004
Soar like an eagle
I used to hate football.
I couldn’t understand why people went to the games. I didn’t understand why people would argue over which team was better. I didn’t understand how people could remember the stats for 47 different players and the schedule for the 1967 Colts.
Of course, most of this disinterest was because I didn’t understand the rules of the game.
Now I do, and I’ve just spent an evening with family and friends, screaming at the television, moaning about dropped passes, and cheering at fake hand-offs and end-zone runs. To the uninitiated, I actually looked like a fan. Then again, to a real fan, I still look like a no-nothing novice. I’m like a 20-year old, stuck between the teenage years and adulthood.
Viewed objectively, it’s astounding how much money and energy is invested in watching 22 men pound the crap out of each other every weekend for 6 months out of the year. It’s surprising to see how energetic and fanatical the spectators get. And it’s startling to find that I am now one of them. I spent money on food to munch on, not just for myself but for 7 others as well. I fired up the surround-sound system, so we could hear the crowd yell in all its glory. I ran to the bathroom during the ads so I wouldn’t have to miss any of the game (just the reverse of what I traditionally do during the Super Bowl). And I screamed myself hoarse when the Eagles won in overtime.
Am I a jock? No way. Even if I wanted to be, it couldn’t happen. I’m too far along the path of geekdom to make the switch now. But I am a little wiser in their ways, and am starting to appreciate their mode of life. I learn a little more each game, and even though my team is still in it, I am looking forward to the next season already.
Go Eagles.
I couldn’t understand why people went to the games. I didn’t understand why people would argue over which team was better. I didn’t understand how people could remember the stats for 47 different players and the schedule for the 1967 Colts.
Of course, most of this disinterest was because I didn’t understand the rules of the game.
Now I do, and I’ve just spent an evening with family and friends, screaming at the television, moaning about dropped passes, and cheering at fake hand-offs and end-zone runs. To the uninitiated, I actually looked like a fan. Then again, to a real fan, I still look like a no-nothing novice. I’m like a 20-year old, stuck between the teenage years and adulthood.
Viewed objectively, it’s astounding how much money and energy is invested in watching 22 men pound the crap out of each other every weekend for 6 months out of the year. It’s surprising to see how energetic and fanatical the spectators get. And it’s startling to find that I am now one of them. I spent money on food to munch on, not just for myself but for 7 others as well. I fired up the surround-sound system, so we could hear the crowd yell in all its glory. I ran to the bathroom during the ads so I wouldn’t have to miss any of the game (just the reverse of what I traditionally do during the Super Bowl). And I screamed myself hoarse when the Eagles won in overtime.
Am I a jock? No way. Even if I wanted to be, it couldn’t happen. I’m too far along the path of geekdom to make the switch now. But I am a little wiser in their ways, and am starting to appreciate their mode of life. I learn a little more each game, and even though my team is still in it, I am looking forward to the next season already.
Go Eagles.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
We Didn't Start The Fire
I've made myself two informal New Year's resolutions. The first is to lose 20 pounds. The second is to write. Now that they are listed somewhere other than the inside of my own head, I suppose they are now *formal* resolutions.
I'd thought that I'd write every day. There are two schools of thought on being a writer. Most professional, successful, popular writers will tell you to write every single day, regardless of how good the result is. Only with practice can we be perfect. My own school of thought is: why write something if you know ahead of time that it's going to be complete garbage? Why not wait until you have something good to write?
After years of following my own advice, a bit of self-inspection has revealed to me that I am neither a professional, successful, nor popular writer. Hmmm. Perhaps my way is wrong.
So I choose to write today without having a topic in mind. The only thing I can think of is a rhetoric question that popped into my mind lately. Why is it so easy to set your house on fire, but so difficult to start a fire in the fireplace? (I don't know where this thought came from. It may be that I saw or heard it in passing. It reminds me of those Stephen Wright-type questions, like "When you ship Styrofoam, what do you pack it in?". I still haven't found out the answer to that one.)
And then I remembered that starting a fire in a fireplace isn't difficult for everyone. My best friend is quite good at it. Mark (http://www.diveintomark.org/) went camping with us a few summers ago, and quickly proved himself as Campfire Man. Campfire Man can gather wood like nobody can. Campfire Man can light a bonfire with a single match. Campfire Man can keep the ashes going all night, so that getting a fire ready for breakfast is a snap. (What Campfire Man can't do, as it turns out, is cook the steaks medium-rare. That's the only time I was allowed near the fire.)
So how did he achieve this greatness? Years of practice, I supposed. But no, he had not been camping before. Aha! He must have read a book on the subject. I looked up "Firebuilding for Dummies", but it doesn't exist. ("Camping for Dummies", though, does: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-form/104-1249955-2568737)
As it turns out, he could just do it. Like that 4-year old who plays Chopin like nobody's business. Or the kitten that somehow (hopefully) knows to use the litterbox instead of the priceless Oriental living room rug.
Now Mark has other talents too, ones he excels at. He's the best programmer and authority on Apple computers that I know. He can juggle 5 balls, and I can only do 4. He is a wonderful husband, and soon to be a wonderful father. Some of these he's had lots and lots of practice at. He's tried, failed, and tried again. Some of them he will have to practice at, and learn through experience (like to have a clean diaper open and ready to slip under the kid's butt as soon as the dirty one comes off. Trust me.).
But firebuilding just came naturally, and I'm really wondering how that happens. Does everybody have something that comes to them naturally? (And conversely, does everybody have something that they will never be good at, no matter how hard they work at it?) What happens in a person's brain that gives them the information, knowledge, and talent needed to succeed the first time?
I don't have the answers, but I'm awfully good at coming up with the questions. I don't know why. I guess it just comes natually.
I'd thought that I'd write every day. There are two schools of thought on being a writer. Most professional, successful, popular writers will tell you to write every single day, regardless of how good the result is. Only with practice can we be perfect. My own school of thought is: why write something if you know ahead of time that it's going to be complete garbage? Why not wait until you have something good to write?
After years of following my own advice, a bit of self-inspection has revealed to me that I am neither a professional, successful, nor popular writer. Hmmm. Perhaps my way is wrong.
So I choose to write today without having a topic in mind. The only thing I can think of is a rhetoric question that popped into my mind lately. Why is it so easy to set your house on fire, but so difficult to start a fire in the fireplace? (I don't know where this thought came from. It may be that I saw or heard it in passing. It reminds me of those Stephen Wright-type questions, like "When you ship Styrofoam, what do you pack it in?". I still haven't found out the answer to that one.)
And then I remembered that starting a fire in a fireplace isn't difficult for everyone. My best friend is quite good at it. Mark (http://www.diveintomark.org/) went camping with us a few summers ago, and quickly proved himself as Campfire Man. Campfire Man can gather wood like nobody can. Campfire Man can light a bonfire with a single match. Campfire Man can keep the ashes going all night, so that getting a fire ready for breakfast is a snap. (What Campfire Man can't do, as it turns out, is cook the steaks medium-rare. That's the only time I was allowed near the fire.)
So how did he achieve this greatness? Years of practice, I supposed. But no, he had not been camping before. Aha! He must have read a book on the subject. I looked up "Firebuilding for Dummies", but it doesn't exist. ("Camping for Dummies", though, does: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-form/104-1249955-2568737)
As it turns out, he could just do it. Like that 4-year old who plays Chopin like nobody's business. Or the kitten that somehow (hopefully) knows to use the litterbox instead of the priceless Oriental living room rug.
Now Mark has other talents too, ones he excels at. He's the best programmer and authority on Apple computers that I know. He can juggle 5 balls, and I can only do 4. He is a wonderful husband, and soon to be a wonderful father. Some of these he's had lots and lots of practice at. He's tried, failed, and tried again. Some of them he will have to practice at, and learn through experience (like to have a clean diaper open and ready to slip under the kid's butt as soon as the dirty one comes off. Trust me.).
But firebuilding just came naturally, and I'm really wondering how that happens. Does everybody have something that comes to them naturally? (And conversely, does everybody have something that they will never be good at, no matter how hard they work at it?) What happens in a person's brain that gives them the information, knowledge, and talent needed to succeed the first time?
I don't have the answers, but I'm awfully good at coming up with the questions. I don't know why. I guess it just comes natually.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
See Spot run.
I stopped home for a very rushed lunch today (two servings of Ramen noodles, chicken flavor, high on the salt, low on the nutrition. Only seven days to blow my New Year’s resolution to eat healthier. That must be some kind of record.) While there, my nearly-3-year-old son asked me to play with him. Sure, why not? I have at least 2 or 3 minutes before I need to be back at work.
Well, he decides that the game to play is with his nearly-5-year-old sister’s flash cards. So he pulls one out, looks at the picture, points at the word and says, “Daddy, what say that?”
Now, those of you with children may understand my reaction. Those without children but planning to have some will eventually find out. Those who don’t have children and never will, well, I don’t know if there’s a way to adequately describe my astonishment and delight. It’s kinda like describing a rainbow to a blind man.
See, I got a decent education. I came from an educated family. We had books all over the house, and I grew up taking literacy for granted. I’m still shocked (but a lot more empathic than I used to be) when I come across a post-adolescent non-reader. There are so many steps we take on the path to reading that, once we know how, we forget about. The very first step is realizing that those funny little squiggles on the page actually have meaning. I don’t remember realizing this for myself, but last year I witnessed my daughter’s revelation. Just like my son, she pointed to the book and said, “Daddy’s what’s that say?” And just like with my son, I was astounded, delighted, and proud beyond all belief. My daughter is recognizing that words exist! Quick, call the grandparents! Alert the media! Call a press conference and get it on the evening news! In my moment of ecstasy, I am quite sure that no other child has ever reached this epiphany, that mine is the brightest of the bright. Just hand her the Nobel Prize now and get years of anticipation over with early.
As I said, if you are a parent, you understand. And if you are not, at this point you probably think I am an incredibly pompous and arrogant individual. But just wait till *you* have kids.
The next step is one that my son hasn’t made yet, but I’m anticipating soon. See, three days after my daughter said “Daddy, what’s that say?”, my wife was reading Sarah “Alice in Wonderland” for her bedtime story. (Another point of pride…my kids refuse to go to bed without a story being read to them. And once I leave the room, my daughter takes books into her bed and falls asleep “reading “ them.) So after finishing the chapter, my wife comes downstairs and tells me that Sarah is mildly upset. Why?, say I. Because she wants to read the story for herself and can’t, says my wife.
Another milestone! The *desire* to read. And this is one that some never get. I think it may come from environment. I grew up surrounded by books, as did my wife. Both of my parents were teachers. I was read to all the time, and my parents were always in the middle of a book. Some don’t have that, and grow up without realizing how much reading has to offer.
So I go upstairs to read a little more to Sarah. As I sit down, she points to the front cover of the book and says, “What’s his name?” I answered, “That’s the Cheshire Cat.” And then she says, “Where’s his word?”
I nearly passed out.
In one week, this child has determined that 1) words have meaning, 2) she will someday be able to decipher that meaning, and 3) every object has a word associated with it.
And to think that I assumed that after seeing her born, everything else would be emotionally anticlimactic. Holy cow.
Well, he decides that the game to play is with his nearly-5-year-old sister’s flash cards. So he pulls one out, looks at the picture, points at the word and says, “Daddy, what say that?”
Now, those of you with children may understand my reaction. Those without children but planning to have some will eventually find out. Those who don’t have children and never will, well, I don’t know if there’s a way to adequately describe my astonishment and delight. It’s kinda like describing a rainbow to a blind man.
See, I got a decent education. I came from an educated family. We had books all over the house, and I grew up taking literacy for granted. I’m still shocked (but a lot more empathic than I used to be) when I come across a post-adolescent non-reader. There are so many steps we take on the path to reading that, once we know how, we forget about. The very first step is realizing that those funny little squiggles on the page actually have meaning. I don’t remember realizing this for myself, but last year I witnessed my daughter’s revelation. Just like my son, she pointed to the book and said, “Daddy’s what’s that say?” And just like with my son, I was astounded, delighted, and proud beyond all belief. My daughter is recognizing that words exist! Quick, call the grandparents! Alert the media! Call a press conference and get it on the evening news! In my moment of ecstasy, I am quite sure that no other child has ever reached this epiphany, that mine is the brightest of the bright. Just hand her the Nobel Prize now and get years of anticipation over with early.
As I said, if you are a parent, you understand. And if you are not, at this point you probably think I am an incredibly pompous and arrogant individual. But just wait till *you* have kids.
The next step is one that my son hasn’t made yet, but I’m anticipating soon. See, three days after my daughter said “Daddy, what’s that say?”, my wife was reading Sarah “Alice in Wonderland” for her bedtime story. (Another point of pride…my kids refuse to go to bed without a story being read to them. And once I leave the room, my daughter takes books into her bed and falls asleep “reading “ them.) So after finishing the chapter, my wife comes downstairs and tells me that Sarah is mildly upset. Why?, say I. Because she wants to read the story for herself and can’t, says my wife.
Another milestone! The *desire* to read. And this is one that some never get. I think it may come from environment. I grew up surrounded by books, as did my wife. Both of my parents were teachers. I was read to all the time, and my parents were always in the middle of a book. Some don’t have that, and grow up without realizing how much reading has to offer.
So I go upstairs to read a little more to Sarah. As I sit down, she points to the front cover of the book and says, “What’s his name?” I answered, “That’s the Cheshire Cat.” And then she says, “Where’s his word?”
I nearly passed out.
In one week, this child has determined that 1) words have meaning, 2) she will someday be able to decipher that meaning, and 3) every object has a word associated with it.
And to think that I assumed that after seeing her born, everything else would be emotionally anticlimactic. Holy cow.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
A good friend of mine has made the suggestion that I can write. I’m not sure if I agree with him. Another good friend has a weblog, and after viewing it for several months and talking with him extensively, he made the suggestion that I start my own. The problem with writing something on a daily, or even weekly basis, is that you need a topic to write on. You can’t write randomly (unless your name is Dave Barry. In that case, anything that comes out of your pen works.).
However, the only topic I feel even remotely an expert on is my own life. Sometimes *very* remotely. And how many people could possibly be interested in my life? Not many. But I don’t care. Because I need to write, and I need a place, other than the confines of my own computer screen, to display what I have to say.
So I'm trying this out. Since I know nothing about web design (yet. Who knows what the future holds?) I make no apologies about the appearance of the site. I have no control (as far as I know) if things accidentally get deleted. As yet, I haven't even learned how to change the color scheme.
But I will. So if you happen to tune in early, rest assured this site will look different in the future. I'm going to play around with it, more as I learn more, and if you like what you see then feel free to tell me so. If you don't like what you see (content or otherwise), be constructively critical....tell me what you want.
But I make no apologies if you don't get it. After all, this is my site.
However, the only topic I feel even remotely an expert on is my own life. Sometimes *very* remotely. And how many people could possibly be interested in my life? Not many. But I don’t care. Because I need to write, and I need a place, other than the confines of my own computer screen, to display what I have to say.
So I'm trying this out. Since I know nothing about web design (yet. Who knows what the future holds?) I make no apologies about the appearance of the site. I have no control (as far as I know) if things accidentally get deleted. As yet, I haven't even learned how to change the color scheme.
But I will. So if you happen to tune in early, rest assured this site will look different in the future. I'm going to play around with it, more as I learn more, and if you like what you see then feel free to tell me so. If you don't like what you see (content or otherwise), be constructively critical....tell me what you want.
But I make no apologies if you don't get it. After all, this is my site.
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