On An Experienced Joy

Bottom line: My kids bring me an unquantifiable amount of joy. Joy, my pastor described recently, understood as a sustained happiness. For me, I ask no questions after a day of battling with Isaac to take a nap or be potty-trained (Only three pairs of pants today!) that a simple gesture or comment or facial reaction can resonate so deeply as to make the whole day seem like it was filled with that singular moment. I don't contemplate why. I analyze everything and I don't analyze that when it happens. Because it fills me with such joy for my son.

It's another thing entirely to understand that your child can do that for others. Today, Lucy made a surprise visit to her aunt's work to see the elderly women she cares for. One of the particular women, well into her 90s, recently suffered several strokes and has been put on hospice. Today had been quite a bad day for her. And so to her came Lucy, all 10lbs of her, wrapped in blankets and jeans and a t-shirt. Both frail, both communicating in simple ways. She held Lucy for 20 minutes. Silently. More than one can count, Dolores pressed her faint lips to Lucy. Watched her. Smiled weakly at her. Lucy reciprocated it in the way babies do. Never took her eyes off of her. Lucy was the first to fall asleep. Dolores soon followed, holding Lucy has tightly and lovingly and joyfully as her old arms would let her.

I heard this story when I returned home tonight. I felt proud. Not of my daughter's ability to comfort and provide a joy for a particular person. She's four months old. She smiles and then toots. But a pride at what exists outside merely parental love. That things can be shared and experienced that truly can sustain us. Great things. Deeply felt things. Musical things like: Love. Joy. Laughter. These are the sustained and suspended chords we experience. Even if and though we know life will resolve itself again tomorrow.

Return From Absenteeism... For The Moment

It's been a long while since I've written anything here. That's a small shame because so much has happened in the interim. Let's see: I've stopped working and am now staying home with the kids; I've been to Florida to visit my brother; I've watched Lucy grow into a magnificent, face-lighting smile and red hair and have been stymied by how Isaac has grown like a weed with opinions; I've watched my fantasy football team go from promising to mediocre to frustrating to Red Sox circa 1993 (seriously, I've been scouring waiver wires for Tim Naehring and Jody Reed and some guys named Billy Joe Robideaux and Carlos Quintana); and made it through the first four seasons of LOST in less than two months -- really, the best show I've seen in a long, long time (Dad, since you're the only one reading this, you should really watch it 'cause you'd watch it like me). So a lot's gone on. Fertile ground for blogging that I've just not done. And maybe won't do again but I've got a small case of writer's block tonight and was looking back over old posts and remembered that, on occasion, this outlet was fun.

One thing I've noticed since I've stopped working is all those things that I thought we're important or, rather, worth my time. Blogs I've stopped reading. Sites on the Internet I've just completely done without. It's funny now, but, clearly those were absolute ways to waste of time while I was at work. Or, maybe more to the point, ways to spend time when I couldn't spend it doing the things I really wanted to do. And the thing I've really wanted to do was be a Dad. And a writer. And a husband. I was those things before, but, now, I've got fewer obfuscations to those goals.

Lucy is a red-head. Beautiful. A smile that literally lights up her face. It's the best joy to be the first one she sees after waking from sleep. She can currently roll-over and has out-grown her clothes which shows me how fast it's all moving.

Isaac can count to 15. He is learning his letters. He can operate the CD, DVD, computer, ice-maker, and our iPhone's flawlessly but can't manage to go the bathroom in the toilet. His prayers are hysterical and challenging and humbling every night-- I know why God is God: it's because of the prayers of children. And he talks to his imaginary friends Dora, Bob the Builder, Boots and Swiper on a daily basis. Oh, and he's scared to death of train whistles.

So I'm here. I'm well. And I'm writing more than ever before, just not here (and I'm not counting Twitter). And that's because I'm inspired more than ever before. Oh, and Frank Gore just scored a touchdown so maybe I'll win my fantasy game this week.

Fresh From God

We have enjoyed every moment with Lucy. And while she sleeps a lot, she's starting to become aware of her surroundings, quietly. Tonight, a snippet of this and, to borrow the phrase of a little girl in the store the other day, I invite you to watch it, because she's fresh from God.

On The Day She Came

Lucy Hall. Lighter than her brother, smaller too. Looks a good deal like him at this point. Though, the Mrs. informs me she has a sprouting, Daddy-like cowlick. Her eyes are shyer than Isaac's, always half-hid, darker and still that bold beautiful blue. Yes. She has burrowed into my heart very nicely.

We named her Lucy for a couple of reasons. Both coming to each of separately. The Mrs. likes the named because of it's meaning: "Light". Which gives us, now laughter and light in our house. A grand metaphor for our two children. My passion for it came about from "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" which stands as my favorite children's book. Lucy was the main character in that story. The first into Narnia and it's wonders. I imagine my little girl taking me to those types of places. To snow-covered lands with anachronistic lampposts and strange white stallions. And a talking Lion.

On the Day She Came we completely expected her to arrive. We didn't wait long for it, only some three hours. We are happy happy happy. Isaac held her numerous times, put his giant hand on her little face in awe at the size difference between the two of them. On the day she came I held her the first time and cried. Unexpectedly. Softly. Proudly. The Mrs cried long, fast, wet tears.

The day she came is winding down. I'm at home. Mom and Lucy are sleeping or feeding or holding each other in that Pieta, that impenetrable shield of love between mother and child. The words fade with the minutes. The ideas and thoughts and phone calls have dwindled for the moment. I'm left trying to figure the wonderfulness of it all out. And I can't. I can't. But it's there, hidden, burrowed down into my heart, waiting to burst forth in those glorious moments of parenthood. Those times when you're caught unawares and left unhinged by the abounding love and joy your child brings.

And so on the the day Lucy's come, to borrow a phrase, I'm willing to rip open my chest and find all the new treasures that are there.

On The Day Before You Came

I'll be honest, I thought this day had already come. Every morning I woke up, I tried to ruminate on the previous day: Was that the day before you came? But that day just hasn't happened until now. So I woke up this morning, three times: Once to meet your brother at the foot of our bed, once with my head cricked on the bean bag in your brother's room and third time back in my bed. I woke up this morning, the day before you came and so far nothing much has happened. I made myself a cold coffee drink and a bagel. Your brother gave me a kiss before I left and told me "Bye Daddy, see you in the morning." He says the funniest things. I just finished some pretzels and downed a liter of water. I wanted a snack from the vending machine but it was found lacking.

I know your mother (who your brother affectionately has taken to calling Moms) is nervous. Her mind, if I know her, is wandering today. Mine too, for that matter. I wonder incessantly about you. What you will look like, how you will laugh and sing and dance. How you will react to your mildly insane older brother who will smother you with his affection and opinions. I wonder about all the things a typical parent wonders about. How much will everything change tomorrow? Beyond that: how much will it change like we are expecting it to change? I know, slightly metaphysical for you. Perhaps I won't read this to you until you're a little older then.

I'm trying to think if I've got anything profound to offer you about the day before you were born. If some prescient bright shining star or angelic rapture or heaven stricken silence has occurred. Some moment that signifies the leaping off of some great height, across some great chasm, landing, tomorrow, with you in our arms. And on the day before you come, I've not been able to find anything. And I think it's because I don't know you yet. I don't know, that maybe the way the sky has cleared brilliantly will be indicative of your eyes. Or that I've heard a song on the radio that will one day be your favorite song. Or the man you will marry was born today. Or your best friend was born today on the day before you came. Or the person who will help you the most in this life stubbed their toe and set off a serious of events that will culminate in the moment you need them the most. I don't know.

I know this day will meld into tomorrow and the next and next. That your presence in my life will work backwards. That's how love tends to work. It stretches out infinitely in the present, reaches ahead of us into the future, and becomes inextricably and inexorably intermingled with our pasts.

The rest of my day will pass by. I'll finish work. Go to the gym. Go home. Have dinner with your grandparents and aunt and cousins -- spaghetti!- and spend my night trying not to think about what I can't help but think about. Maybe I'll look for a profundity or two for you. One I'll share with you and tell you about over and over again. One you'll get tired of hearing but will want to hear nonetheless. I'll keep my eyes and ears open.

But as this night wanes, as it heads off to that second star to the right and I close my eyes and put my hand across Moms belly and feel you kicking inside, on the day before you came, I will say to you "Good night, sweet daughter, see you in the morning."

Isaac's WIthdrawal Notice

To The Goddard School:

We plan to withdraw our son, Isaac, from your program. The decision is a difficult one, but necessary. His time at school has been one filled with many memorable events: from muffins with Mom to dogs with Dad to Water Days, Isaac has had no shortage of pleasant memories.

However, as I know we are not the first parents to express concern, we will also make clear to you the reason we have chosen to withdraw Isaac from the school. Specifically, the recent employment of a one Karen Westfield.

Our first experience with Ms. Westfield was amicable. My wife picked Isaac up from school that day approximately a week after Ms. Westfield was hired. The conversation went as follows:

Ms. Westfield (in her clearly fake English accent): Tip-toppity of day for the young lad. He surely trounced around with all the other wee laddies and lassies. Quite a splendid chap you have there. I should like to eat him for dinner.

My wife: Huh?

From there, more peculiar comments followed. One time, she remarked that Isaac’s hair smelled delicious. Another time he came home missing a sock and when asked where that sock went, Ms. Westfield giggled and belched. Of course some of these things were harmless fun. Mispeaks, if you will. The colloquialisms of a social pariah even.

But the most recent events have required the most drastic of action. Look, we weren’t even that upset over the day she brought her pet dragon in and it scorched his hair off. If we had been the parents of a girl, we may have been more upset at that time. But as it was we were planning to shave his head. And dragons are cool. They just are.

You know, not even the whole turning the Foster’s kid into a rabbit was really that bad. That kid was a jerk anyway. And don’t get me started on his high-fallutin parents who’ve got no sense of humor or any awe for magic.

But when she ate that kid. The Reilly's kid I think it was. Well, that worried us. We've debated taking him every day after that. We’ve thought about it for a month now. Smiling politely each day at Ms. Westfield and her dragon (which, she’s bringing regularly now?). But the time has come where we think it’s just not the right environment for him. Plus we’ve lost a few too many socks.

Thanks for your acceptance of this request,
Aaron Guest

The Descent

I think it must have taken a lot for him to come down. To wander out so aimlessly into the darkness. To measure each step so accurately, trusting eyes that barely knew how to see but needed to see depth. And the darkness. Existing in a world he was not at all familiar with. Without the ambient light he ascended with. Or was forced to close his eyes too. The world was much different than he remembered, if he remembered at all. But down he came.

I think he must’ve felt trapped. From where he was he could see the moon and the stars and faint blowing breeze dancing on the tops of the trees. Down here he must’ve felt trapped in his father’s house. Destined to walk a path that a hair’s breath on either side would have succumbed him to the unfettered and unsoothable pain of something as simple as a stubbed toe. Maybe it was a pain he was prepared for. But I contend that a pain you know is coming is far worse than one you get blindsided with because you can do nothing to stop it. The world down here: in a succulent darkness. But down he came.

I think of the timber of his heart. The courage to risk the fall to risk it all to descend and traverse and withstand what he feared most: knowing the absolute worst could happen. And whatever measure of choice brought him to the penultimate moment, to the riskiest risk in the darkiest darkness, I cannot imagine the courage it took for him to speak.

We did not hear him as he called out from right over our heads, loudly, screaming at us asleep in our darkness. What made him think we would hear him even if he stood in our very presence, knowing we were very much asleep. What kind of courage it takes to endure a descent into such darkness and yield such a little but bright colored word that can so powerfully awake us, is something you’ll need to ask him.

But last night, down Isaac came, from his new room upstairs to the foot of our bed before calling out in a final breath: “Momma”. It’s a journey I don’t think he was the first to make.