Gareth: Sure, Ken, you drive too much. Ken: And you, Gareth, wear Nikes. Together: But we both agree that recycling is not only a good source of revenue, but responsible adult behavior
Halloween and Lawns
15 years ago
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Saturday, May 21, 2005
I guess it is my turn...
I have been told it is my turn to post something on the family blog. This is my first time blogging. I don't suppose it feels any different than e-mailing or journal writing. I am gaining confidence, yes, I am ready to update you all.
First, I want to thank all of you who have visited our blog and those of you who have left comments. Very fun--please always feel free to do so.
This week Aaron finished the first round of PhD exams. A relief to us all. Poor kid, I do not envy him all that he went through to get through the exams, but I'm proud of him. My life does not have too many twists or outrageous experiences at present. Sometimes this is nice. Work has been busy. I now "scrub" in the OR for c-sections too, which was a big fear to conquer for me. There have been a lot of women in labor as late--I guess this is good since that is the business I am in, but I sure come home tired.
The boys have been helping me around the yard. We got our flower beds cleared out and some flowers in. In the immortal words of Rick Springfield, Gareth is "working for the weekend" these days. He lives his life for tee-ball. He practices daily and counts down all week to Saturday morning. Eliot acquired a few injuries the past couple of weeks. The first occured while washing the roof of the Volvo. He was standing inside the car with his head through the sunroof, when Gareth slipped, pushing Eliot out of the car and onto his head. I believe there may be a picture of said injury--I will try to include it. Only a few days later he came down the stairs (the hard way) to say good-bye to me as I left for work. This added a new bump and small gash about an inch above the old.
Well, that is enough for now. Again, thank you all for your patronage. Be well.
First, I want to thank all of you who have visited our blog and those of you who have left comments. Very fun--please always feel free to do so.
This week Aaron finished the first round of PhD exams. A relief to us all. Poor kid, I do not envy him all that he went through to get through the exams, but I'm proud of him. My life does not have too many twists or outrageous experiences at present. Sometimes this is nice. Work has been busy. I now "scrub" in the OR for c-sections too, which was a big fear to conquer for me. There have been a lot of women in labor as late--I guess this is good since that is the business I am in, but I sure come home tired.
The boys have been helping me around the yard. We got our flower beds cleared out and some flowers in. In the immortal words of Rick Springfield, Gareth is "working for the weekend" these days. He lives his life for tee-ball. He practices daily and counts down all week to Saturday morning. Eliot acquired a few injuries the past couple of weeks. The first occured while washing the roof of the Volvo. He was standing inside the car with his head through the sunroof, when Gareth slipped, pushing Eliot out of the car and onto his head. I believe there may be a picture of said injury--I will try to include it. Only a few days later he came down the stairs (the hard way) to say good-bye to me as I left for work. This added a new bump and small gash about an inch above the old.
Well, that is enough for now. Again, thank you all for your patronage. Be well.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Bad Father
From the moment we stepped on the Little League baseball field, I felt like a bad father. Gareth and I played catch underhand using the basket catch. The other boys and their fathers threw the ball over hand and caught the ball with their mitts in upright positions.
One little boy was dressed in baseball pants, baseball shirt, cleats, and wore two batting gloves. When batting he stood in the batter's box instead of on homeplate. He knew first base from third base, and when the coach hit a pop fly, he didn't run for cover.
That's it, I thought. From now on, we get up at 5:45, drink raw eggs, jog to the baseball diamond, where we will run drills until seven. I will buy Cal Ripken's book. I will buy Gareth the gear--you've got to look good to play good. When Gareth complains that baseball is too difficult, I will tell him that baseball, like life, isn't always fun.
I didn't want to be a bad father so I volunteered to help. My first assignment: help another father play catch with the boys. Which we did. A few minutes into it, the other father pointed to Gareth and said: “That boy is afraid of the ball.”
"Afraid of the ball?" I said. "My son is not afraid of the ball."
Then, to make my point, I threw Gareth a hard grounder. He fielded the tricky hop beautifully by blocking the ball with his upper body. The ball landed on his cheek before it dropped in his mitt. I was proud.
"Way to go, Son," I said.
"Is he okay?" the other father said.
"Did you see the way he blocked that ball?" I said.
"Dad," Gareth said, "my cheek hurts."
Gareth and I sat in the dugout for the next fifteen minutes while he recovered. I thought ten would have been enough, but he is only five so I relented.
Gareth and I rejoined the other boys and their fathers on the bases. I found myself complimenting the other kids no matter what they did and criticizing Gareth for anything he did. And this knowledge hit me in the side of the head like a fastball. I was a bad father. I had scarred Gareth for the rest of his life. He would hate what I wanted so badly for him to love.
At the end of the practice I was devasted. I didn’t want to ask Gareth how he liked it. The answer was obvious, I thought. He looked tired when he got into the backseat. His face was red and the spot on his cheek where the ball hit was redder. I patted him on the head and buckled his seatbelt.
"It's difficult the first few times," I said.
"Dad?"
Here it comes, I thought. This is the end of everything.
“Tee Ball was awesome. I can't wait until next week.”
For the rest of that day he would not take off his Tee Ball shirt and hat. He remarked several times how comfortable the hat was as a pretext for not taking it off. Later, after he'd fallen asleep, I found his shirt underneath his pillow and his hat in his hand.
One little boy was dressed in baseball pants, baseball shirt, cleats, and wore two batting gloves. When batting he stood in the batter's box instead of on homeplate. He knew first base from third base, and when the coach hit a pop fly, he didn't run for cover.
That's it, I thought. From now on, we get up at 5:45, drink raw eggs, jog to the baseball diamond, where we will run drills until seven. I will buy Cal Ripken's book. I will buy Gareth the gear--you've got to look good to play good. When Gareth complains that baseball is too difficult, I will tell him that baseball, like life, isn't always fun.
I didn't want to be a bad father so I volunteered to help. My first assignment: help another father play catch with the boys. Which we did. A few minutes into it, the other father pointed to Gareth and said: “That boy is afraid of the ball.”
"Afraid of the ball?" I said. "My son is not afraid of the ball."
Then, to make my point, I threw Gareth a hard grounder. He fielded the tricky hop beautifully by blocking the ball with his upper body. The ball landed on his cheek before it dropped in his mitt. I was proud.
"Way to go, Son," I said.
"Is he okay?" the other father said.
"Did you see the way he blocked that ball?" I said.
"Dad," Gareth said, "my cheek hurts."
Gareth and I sat in the dugout for the next fifteen minutes while he recovered. I thought ten would have been enough, but he is only five so I relented.
Gareth and I rejoined the other boys and their fathers on the bases. I found myself complimenting the other kids no matter what they did and criticizing Gareth for anything he did. And this knowledge hit me in the side of the head like a fastball. I was a bad father. I had scarred Gareth for the rest of his life. He would hate what I wanted so badly for him to love.
At the end of the practice I was devasted. I didn’t want to ask Gareth how he liked it. The answer was obvious, I thought. He looked tired when he got into the backseat. His face was red and the spot on his cheek where the ball hit was redder. I patted him on the head and buckled his seatbelt.
"It's difficult the first few times," I said.
"Dad?"
Here it comes, I thought. This is the end of everything.
“Tee Ball was awesome. I can't wait until next week.”
For the rest of that day he would not take off his Tee Ball shirt and hat. He remarked several times how comfortable the hat was as a pretext for not taking it off. Later, after he'd fallen asleep, I found his shirt underneath his pillow and his hat in his hand.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Eliot's first Red Sox game
It was the Red Sox and the first-place Orioles. It was game three of the series. The Red Sox had dropped the first two games. The table was set; Tim Wakefield on the mound.
Gareth stayed up late the night before. He packed fruit snacks, peanuts, crayons, paper, Red Sox jerseys, potato chips, Teddy Grahams, granola bars, and sugarless bubble gum. He wanted to make it special for Eliot. His words: "The first game sets the tone for a life of commitment. We don't want anything to get in the way of his connection with Fenway Park, with the team, and with the city of Boston. He needs nourishment. He'll need a Red Sox cap from an overpriced Yawkey way souvenir shop."
Then the rains came. But we had bought tickets. It took me six hours on the phones and internet to get these tickets. It took six Holly shifts (since I still don't make any money writing stories or reading books) and ten baby deliveries (three boys, seven girls). They might play. And we would be there.
We took the pike, paid the tolls, listened to the Beatles, rode the T, walked with umbrellas out, and paid $13.12 for two happy meals with hamburgers, one Big Mac meal with a Coke, another hamburger, and a chocolate shake. We bought the overpriced Red Sox hat (Red with blue 'B') and put it on Eliot's head. It looked spectacular.
The rains went in and out like the New York Yankee's pitching staff.
We sat in our seats. Look at the picture. It was breathtaking. The white tarp, the new outfield, the Green Monster. On the jumbo-tron we watched them all from Babe Ruth to Ted Williams to Dwight Evans to Carlton Fisk to Roger Clemens to Nomar to Pedro to Curt Schilling.
Then like the Yankee's pitching, the rain stopped. The players came out on the field. They threw baseballs to each other! It was splendid.
The announcement came: The game that should have started at 1:05 will now begin at 2:35.
Eliot was growing restless. His faith was faltering. The players throwing balls to each other helped, but he knew that the rain was like the Yankees pitching staff. He knew what this meant.
He needed to pee. I took him to the restroom. He peed well and washed his hands like a champion. I told him that this was how Red Sox fans peed. I told him how proud of him I was. From the bathroom, we began our walk, hand-in-hand to our seats.
"The rain, Father, is pounding the earth like an overpriced Randy Johnson fastball."
And then the announcement came again: The game that should have started first at 1:05 and then at 2:35 has been postponed."
This is not the lesson I wanted Eliot to learn: that the rain, like the Yankess pitching staff, though it may falter, though it may start and stop, fall hard then soft, always wins. Last year proved this, did it not?
But the rain, what could we do?
So we walked with umbrellas open and took the T to the pike, listened to Neil Diamond, paid the tolls, and drank hot chocolate. At home, we did what any Red Sox fan would do in our situation: we watched the Yankees lose to the Angels: 5-1.
Gareth stayed up late the night before. He packed fruit snacks, peanuts, crayons, paper, Red Sox jerseys, potato chips, Teddy Grahams, granola bars, and sugarless bubble gum. He wanted to make it special for Eliot. His words: "The first game sets the tone for a life of commitment. We don't want anything to get in the way of his connection with Fenway Park, with the team, and with the city of Boston. He needs nourishment. He'll need a Red Sox cap from an overpriced Yawkey way souvenir shop."
Then the rains came. But we had bought tickets. It took me six hours on the phones and internet to get these tickets. It took six Holly shifts (since I still don't make any money writing stories or reading books) and ten baby deliveries (three boys, seven girls). They might play. And we would be there.
We took the pike, paid the tolls, listened to the Beatles, rode the T, walked with umbrellas out, and paid $13.12 for two happy meals with hamburgers, one Big Mac meal with a Coke, another hamburger, and a chocolate shake. We bought the overpriced Red Sox hat (Red with blue 'B') and put it on Eliot's head. It looked spectacular.
The rains went in and out like the New York Yankee's pitching staff.
We sat in our seats. Look at the picture. It was breathtaking. The white tarp, the new outfield, the Green Monster. On the jumbo-tron we watched them all from Babe Ruth to Ted Williams to Dwight Evans to Carlton Fisk to Roger Clemens to Nomar to Pedro to Curt Schilling.
Then like the Yankee's pitching, the rain stopped. The players came out on the field. They threw baseballs to each other! It was splendid.
The announcement came: The game that should have started at 1:05 will now begin at 2:35.
Eliot was growing restless. His faith was faltering. The players throwing balls to each other helped, but he knew that the rain was like the Yankees pitching staff. He knew what this meant.
He needed to pee. I took him to the restroom. He peed well and washed his hands like a champion. I told him that this was how Red Sox fans peed. I told him how proud of him I was. From the bathroom, we began our walk, hand-in-hand to our seats.
"The rain, Father, is pounding the earth like an overpriced Randy Johnson fastball."
And then the announcement came again: The game that should have started first at 1:05 and then at 2:35 has been postponed."
This is not the lesson I wanted Eliot to learn: that the rain, like the Yankess pitching staff, though it may falter, though it may start and stop, fall hard then soft, always wins. Last year proved this, did it not?
But the rain, what could we do?
So we walked with umbrellas open and took the T to the pike, listened to Neil Diamond, paid the tolls, and drank hot chocolate. At home, we did what any Red Sox fan would do in our situation: we watched the Yankees lose to the Angels: 5-1.
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