Allow me the pleasure of enlightening you with a juicy news nugget. You see, last night Michael decided to stop wearing diapers and start wearing underwear!!
To experience the full effect of that last sentence at the Ward castle, please reread it, only this time imagine the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing "HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!" during each beautiful word! For more than a year Michael has engaged in a defiant underwear strike. He refused to even discuss the possibility of taking off his diapers and wearing underwear.
We tried all the tricks in the book. We told him that only "little boys and babies" wore diapers, and that he needed to wear underwear to be a "big boy." Michael's response -- "I don't want to be a big boy. I wear diapers!" Smart kid!
April and I had just about given up hope when the little stinker called a press conference in his room and officially announced the change. There were tears of joy as little Michael finally slipped on his blue "Cars" undies, featuring the infamous Lightning McQueen.
I must say this development eases my worries a little. I had this terrifying vision of tossing him the car keys so he could drive to the store and buy his diapers. Another vision involved Michael standing at a podium in a packed lecture hall. "It is my great honor to accept this Nobel Prize," Michael says in the vision. "Through hard work, dedication and perseverance, I can now say that we live in a world without cancer. Now, if everyone would please leave the room, I have to go poopy in my diaper."
Moving along in the news department, I had the distinct misfortune of watching a 3-year-old endure an allergic reaction to nuts today. Just a few short hours ago. Here's a blow-by-blow for this sort of thing, in case you're interested. First, the little guy comes up to you and screams "My tummy hurts!" with enough ferocity to kick off a minor earthquake. Next, he develops hives all over his body and begins to get woozy. His grand finale involves throwing up in a trash can.
Time out for a second.
As you might have noticed, I tend to deal with life through humor, but there is nothing humorous about watching your little boy go through something like that. It's terrifying. Michael has an abundance of food allergies that require a special diet. He is allergic to eggs, wheat, milk and soy. His diet consists primarily of fresh fruits, vegetables and meats. Nothing processed that contains preservatives. After today, I guess we can add nuts to the long list of banned foods.
Thankfully Michael never had trouble breathing at the minor emergency center, and his "medicine" consists of Pepcid and Clarinex. In just a few short hours after the incident, Michael was back to his old self running around the house imitating Power Rangers (his new fascination) and hiding from Mommy and Daddy in the closet -- It's our job to go find him and say "boo!" A simple game that never gets old, and never fails to deliver unabashed glee from the little guy.
All things considered, we're doing all right at the castle this evening. Michael is sporting dashing new underwear and fully recovered from what shall henceforth be known as "the nut incident." Just another spin around the sun while living the dream.
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Cabin Fee-vah
Son of a #@%&* I did it again! I somehow slipped into a trance, spent an hour or so on YouTube watching Eddie Vedder videos, and then went and purchased more CD's. All this after ranting and raving against this very practice on this very blog just a week ago (for a lengthy YouTube rant, check out the posting "Shake along with me").
I know. I can't believe it either!
I thought I had matured over these many hours. Thought I had grown as a person, found my Zen, strayed from the dark side. I thought I could trust myself to simply "look and not touch." To resist the urge to spend money that I don't even have. (By the way, if you're reading this April, hon, this is all an elaborate lie. I wouldn't do something like that. Honest. What do you mean I'm sweating?).
I know now I have a problem. I need counseling, and therapy, and other stuff that will get me out of the house. I must say, however, that this unforgivable act is not entirely my fault. I place part of the blame squarely on Mother Nature's shoulders. That's right, Mother Nature.
Follow me on this.
You see, the temperature this past week has hovered around Antarctic levels. There is ice, snow and plenty of other really, really cold stuff. Last night it got so bad that my husky dog Kiki took one look outside and responded with "Whoa man, I'm not crazy enough to go out in that!" It snowed all night long in freezing temperatures, creating a nice system of ice rinks where the roads used to be. Michael and I were preparing to visit Grandma's house this morning, but when the Zamboni drove by, I opted against it.
Basically Michael and I have been stuck in the house this entire week. Making matters even more exciting is the fact that Michael's nose has apparently sprung a leak. He's been following me around all day chanting the mantra "wanna kleenex" over and over. It's actually quite amazing to watch the sheer amount of, um, liquid gooeyness that escapes from a toddler's nose. Simply astounding!
So anyway, between wiping my son's nose and reading the newspaper, I became somewhat restless. My legs revolted and began walking toward the computer. "No legs!" I shouted. "You know I can't be trusted with that evil machine." The legs never listen. They plopped me down in front of the screen, and soon my hands bolted to life and clicked on the YouTube site. The rest, as they say, is history.
I am ashamed. Ashamed I tell you!! If only it were sunny. Things would be different. It's a scientific fact that people never make unwarranted CD purchases after watching YouTube when the sun is shining. At least it should be a fact!
All I can do now is drown in my sorrows while waiting for my CD's to arrive in up to three business days. Oh, and give my legs a stern talking to!
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
I know. I can't believe it either!
I thought I had matured over these many hours. Thought I had grown as a person, found my Zen, strayed from the dark side. I thought I could trust myself to simply "look and not touch." To resist the urge to spend money that I don't even have. (By the way, if you're reading this April, hon, this is all an elaborate lie. I wouldn't do something like that. Honest. What do you mean I'm sweating?).
I know now I have a problem. I need counseling, and therapy, and other stuff that will get me out of the house. I must say, however, that this unforgivable act is not entirely my fault. I place part of the blame squarely on Mother Nature's shoulders. That's right, Mother Nature.
Follow me on this.
You see, the temperature this past week has hovered around Antarctic levels. There is ice, snow and plenty of other really, really cold stuff. Last night it got so bad that my husky dog Kiki took one look outside and responded with "Whoa man, I'm not crazy enough to go out in that!" It snowed all night long in freezing temperatures, creating a nice system of ice rinks where the roads used to be. Michael and I were preparing to visit Grandma's house this morning, but when the Zamboni drove by, I opted against it.
Basically Michael and I have been stuck in the house this entire week. Making matters even more exciting is the fact that Michael's nose has apparently sprung a leak. He's been following me around all day chanting the mantra "wanna kleenex" over and over. It's actually quite amazing to watch the sheer amount of, um, liquid gooeyness that escapes from a toddler's nose. Simply astounding!
So anyway, between wiping my son's nose and reading the newspaper, I became somewhat restless. My legs revolted and began walking toward the computer. "No legs!" I shouted. "You know I can't be trusted with that evil machine." The legs never listen. They plopped me down in front of the screen, and soon my hands bolted to life and clicked on the YouTube site. The rest, as they say, is history.
I am ashamed. Ashamed I tell you!! If only it were sunny. Things would be different. It's a scientific fact that people never make unwarranted CD purchases after watching YouTube when the sun is shining. At least it should be a fact!
All I can do now is drown in my sorrows while waiting for my CD's to arrive in up to three business days. Oh, and give my legs a stern talking to!
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Finding perspective
I realize I have not delivered on my promise to update Michael's preschool situation. So, here goes. April finally tracked down one of the teachers present at the evaluation. This is not easy. Apparently the evaluations are actually performed by trained navy seals who disappear under cover of night once the testing is over. There is no evidence of their presence, and no real way to know if it actually happened.
Anyway, the teacher remains confident that Michael was indeed evaluated as a bristling 3-year-old, and the mistake was solely on the information sheet. She feels "confident" that the results are accurate. We're still waiting for the seals to contact us from an undisclosed location with further orders. Stay tuned.
Now .... back to the show!
I lead a blessed life. Just thought I should get that out in the open. I have a beautiful wife, a darling little boy, a good home, a car, a husky, a tree fort, etc. If I require food, there is a grocery store right down the street. If I require fuel, there is a gas station at the grocery store. Coffee? The grocery store has a Starbucks too. Apparently I should move into the grocery store, but I digress.
The point is I don't suffer in any way. There are no bombs going off in my neighborhood. I don't have to stand in line for bread. When you consider the whole of human history, I have it pretty darn good. So, naturally, I spend an ample amount of time feeling sorry for myself. It's the American way!
I lament how I'm not "successful." How I don't feel "whole" and don't really have a "purpose." I'm great at sulking over vague concepts and placing importance on meaningless things. You know the routine -- "Poor me, I guess I'll just feel sorry for myself in my nice house and watch satellite TV. Boo hoo!"
I make myself sick! Every once in a while I come upon a situation that snaps me out of this delusion. I meet up with people with real problems and I am always astounded by the graceful way they handle it. They stare defiantly at pain, suffering and loss and never blink. I, on the other hand, cry like a little baby when my Fighting Irish lose the Gator Bowl on the Playstation (It's just too soon. I still can't talk about it).
Some good friends of mine just endured one of life's ultimate nightmares. They saw their beloved grandchildren taken away from their mother. Apparently the biological father, who lives several states away, swooped in and accused the mother and her new husband of abuse. The allegations alone allowed police to keep the children away from their mother for a full month while all parties had to endure a lengthy trial. All of this happened during the Christmas season.
The allegations are false, yet the entire mess has left the mother devastated and our friends equally mortified. It's a scene straight out of a bad lifetime movie. Yet it's as real as the sun rising every day.
I can't begin to imagine the pain my friends are feeling. How scared they must have been. Yet I am blown away with the dignity and strength with which they have handled it. They are true heroes in my eyes.
Kind of puts everything into perspective, doesn't it? Since this has happened, I find myself watching Michael and fully realizing just how much I love him. There is no adequate way to describe a parent's love for their children .... Unless, of course, you watch obscure movies starring Drew Barrymore! There is a scene from the movie "Riding in Cars with Boys," that has always stuck with me. (Save your breath, guys, I gave up my "man card" years ago). In this scene Barrymore's character is questioning her parenting skills and her love for her son. Brittany Murphy, who plays Barrymore's friend, unleashes a monologue for the ages.
"I think that sometimes we love people so much that we have to be numb to it," her character begins. "Because if we actually felt how much we really love them, it would kill us."
This is very true when it comes to parenting. Most of the time you go through your day content with the knowledge that you love your kid. But, sometimes, you are flooded with a love so strong it stops your heart for a second. You realize you are just getting a taste of the genuine love you feel for them. A tiny glimpse into an emotion so powerful, it can't be safely experienced for more than a split second.
This past week I have watched Michael blissfully running around the house in his hockey jersey, smiling ear to ear, with a renewed appreciation. I know what it is to love. I know just how lucky I am. I give thanks for this blessed life!
Be thankful kiddies!
- Dave
Anyway, the teacher remains confident that Michael was indeed evaluated as a bristling 3-year-old, and the mistake was solely on the information sheet. She feels "confident" that the results are accurate. We're still waiting for the seals to contact us from an undisclosed location with further orders. Stay tuned.
Now .... back to the show!
I lead a blessed life. Just thought I should get that out in the open. I have a beautiful wife, a darling little boy, a good home, a car, a husky, a tree fort, etc. If I require food, there is a grocery store right down the street. If I require fuel, there is a gas station at the grocery store. Coffee? The grocery store has a Starbucks too. Apparently I should move into the grocery store, but I digress.
The point is I don't suffer in any way. There are no bombs going off in my neighborhood. I don't have to stand in line for bread. When you consider the whole of human history, I have it pretty darn good. So, naturally, I spend an ample amount of time feeling sorry for myself. It's the American way!
I lament how I'm not "successful." How I don't feel "whole" and don't really have a "purpose." I'm great at sulking over vague concepts and placing importance on meaningless things. You know the routine -- "Poor me, I guess I'll just feel sorry for myself in my nice house and watch satellite TV. Boo hoo!"
I make myself sick! Every once in a while I come upon a situation that snaps me out of this delusion. I meet up with people with real problems and I am always astounded by the graceful way they handle it. They stare defiantly at pain, suffering and loss and never blink. I, on the other hand, cry like a little baby when my Fighting Irish lose the Gator Bowl on the Playstation (It's just too soon. I still can't talk about it).
Some good friends of mine just endured one of life's ultimate nightmares. They saw their beloved grandchildren taken away from their mother. Apparently the biological father, who lives several states away, swooped in and accused the mother and her new husband of abuse. The allegations alone allowed police to keep the children away from their mother for a full month while all parties had to endure a lengthy trial. All of this happened during the Christmas season.
The allegations are false, yet the entire mess has left the mother devastated and our friends equally mortified. It's a scene straight out of a bad lifetime movie. Yet it's as real as the sun rising every day.
I can't begin to imagine the pain my friends are feeling. How scared they must have been. Yet I am blown away with the dignity and strength with which they have handled it. They are true heroes in my eyes.
Kind of puts everything into perspective, doesn't it? Since this has happened, I find myself watching Michael and fully realizing just how much I love him. There is no adequate way to describe a parent's love for their children .... Unless, of course, you watch obscure movies starring Drew Barrymore! There is a scene from the movie "Riding in Cars with Boys," that has always stuck with me. (Save your breath, guys, I gave up my "man card" years ago). In this scene Barrymore's character is questioning her parenting skills and her love for her son. Brittany Murphy, who plays Barrymore's friend, unleashes a monologue for the ages.
"I think that sometimes we love people so much that we have to be numb to it," her character begins. "Because if we actually felt how much we really love them, it would kill us."
This is very true when it comes to parenting. Most of the time you go through your day content with the knowledge that you love your kid. But, sometimes, you are flooded with a love so strong it stops your heart for a second. You realize you are just getting a taste of the genuine love you feel for them. A tiny glimpse into an emotion so powerful, it can't be safely experienced for more than a split second.
This past week I have watched Michael blissfully running around the house in his hockey jersey, smiling ear to ear, with a renewed appreciation. I know what it is to love. I know just how lucky I am. I give thanks for this blessed life!
Be thankful kiddies!
- Dave
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Shake along with me
As you might imagine, the life of a stay-at-home Dad is quite demanding. There are meals to cook, bills to pay, diapers to change and messes to clean up. Not to brag or anything, but my regular to-do list features a number of items simply brimming with importance. Balancing the checkbook, cleaning out the sink, becoming a master of expressionistic painting, it's all there.
The only problem, however, is for reasons that defy my understanding my regular to-do list never seems to get done. There are plenty of good theories out there. You see, I have an extensive habit of playing college football video games on the playstation. It's possible this activity cuts into my to-do list time. But those cyber-athletes are counting on me! If I don't lead grand ole' Notre Dame into virtual battle, just who will?! What will become of those poor, abandoned cyber-student-athletes living inside my playstation?
Also, I have a nasty habit of staring at the wall for hours while the checkbook sits patiently in front of me. I've been known to ponder the most minute details of my kitchen window while "balancing the checkbook," coming away with loads of priceless information that will be utilized the next time the category of "random kitchen window ponderings" appears on Jeopardy. So there!
I have been able to curtail these distractions long enough to get some actual work done in the past, but now I am faced with a new foe. A foe so strong, so alluring, that I may never be useful again. You see, I have discovered YouTube!
It began innocently enough. I saw a highlight of Oasis on VH1 while preparing to do the dishes, and instantly launched into a full-scale nostalgia attack. Suddenly I was 16 again, the Gallagher brothers were rocking the free world while cursing at each other, and flannel shirts were awesome. I immediately found my way to YouTube and started watching Oasis videos. Five minutes became an hour, an hour became two hours, and before I knew it I had grown a three-foot long beard and Michael was preparing to leave for college. I couldn't stop reliving my youth through small grainy videos on my computer screen!
But it didn't stop there. Oh no. I lapsed into a YouTube trance and somehow ventured to the Barnes and Noble site. It appears that I purchased two CD's that will be arriving at my doorstep tomorrow, perhaps Friday-. Damn you YouTube!! This is all your fault. I don't have money to spend on CD's!! I don't have time to spend all day watching your grainy goodness!! This has to stop!
By the way, nobody told me that Oasis created one of the greatest rock n' roll records of all time! Like everyone else, I was a fan of (What's the Story) Morning Glory and the numerous hits. I just wasn't aware that they had already created a masterpiece known as Definitely Maybe. I defy anyone to listen to tracks like "Rock n Roll Star," or "Cigarettes and Alcohol," and not bounce around the room in rocking bliss! Anyway, this is all your fault YouTube!!
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to watch "Shakermaker" again before painting the house.
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
The only problem, however, is for reasons that defy my understanding my regular to-do list never seems to get done. There are plenty of good theories out there. You see, I have an extensive habit of playing college football video games on the playstation. It's possible this activity cuts into my to-do list time. But those cyber-athletes are counting on me! If I don't lead grand ole' Notre Dame into virtual battle, just who will?! What will become of those poor, abandoned cyber-student-athletes living inside my playstation?
Also, I have a nasty habit of staring at the wall for hours while the checkbook sits patiently in front of me. I've been known to ponder the most minute details of my kitchen window while "balancing the checkbook," coming away with loads of priceless information that will be utilized the next time the category of "random kitchen window ponderings" appears on Jeopardy. So there!
I have been able to curtail these distractions long enough to get some actual work done in the past, but now I am faced with a new foe. A foe so strong, so alluring, that I may never be useful again. You see, I have discovered YouTube!
It began innocently enough. I saw a highlight of Oasis on VH1 while preparing to do the dishes, and instantly launched into a full-scale nostalgia attack. Suddenly I was 16 again, the Gallagher brothers were rocking the free world while cursing at each other, and flannel shirts were awesome. I immediately found my way to YouTube and started watching Oasis videos. Five minutes became an hour, an hour became two hours, and before I knew it I had grown a three-foot long beard and Michael was preparing to leave for college. I couldn't stop reliving my youth through small grainy videos on my computer screen!
But it didn't stop there. Oh no. I lapsed into a YouTube trance and somehow ventured to the Barnes and Noble site. It appears that I purchased two CD's that will be arriving at my doorstep tomorrow, perhaps Friday-. Damn you YouTube!! This is all your fault. I don't have money to spend on CD's!! I don't have time to spend all day watching your grainy goodness!! This has to stop!
By the way, nobody told me that Oasis created one of the greatest rock n' roll records of all time! Like everyone else, I was a fan of (What's the Story) Morning Glory and the numerous hits. I just wasn't aware that they had already created a masterpiece known as Definitely Maybe. I defy anyone to listen to tracks like "Rock n Roll Star," or "Cigarettes and Alcohol," and not bounce around the room in rocking bliss! Anyway, this is all your fault YouTube!!
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to watch "Shakermaker" again before painting the house.
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
Monday, January 14, 2008
What's up doc?
Thought I'd chime in about our little trip to preschool on Friday. I've mentioned in this space before that Michael is a bit, shall we say, passionate at times. He often gets overstimulated in group situations and melts down for all to see. The resulting tantrums, complete with screaming, running and sometimes even rolling around on the floor, leads to ample embarrassment for Mommy and Daddy. There are numerous other oddities that Michael demonstrates, but like any good father in denial, I have refused to acknowledge them.
A few months ago we had Michael evaluated by a pediatric specialist, and he chose the term "pervasive developmental disorder" to describe Michael's behavior. Apparently he opted against my very technical term of "satanic screaming fit." I was rather proud of this description, but apparently the good doctor disagreed. A guy gets a degree and he thinks he knows things!
Anyhoo, we took Michael to a local elementary school for evaluation by the school district. Michael ventured off with several therapists for some one-on-one testing, complete with a hearing test, vision test, etc. They warned us beforehand to "be prepared," and that it might get "a little crazy" with all of the kids waiting to be tested. Now, I should say that I have a very loud internal alarm that sounds whenever I hear the phrase "it might get a little crazy" regarding testing.
You see, I was forced to undergo fertility testing when we were attempting to bring forth life into this wonderful world. I had extensive knowledge of this testing procedure, having watched several episodes of "Friends," and "All my Children." I knew all about the nice cushy rooms filled with "adult entertainment" that I could utilize at my leisure.
What I didn't know is that this is all a huge crock of you-know-what. In real life I found myself rushed into a crowded, dingy waiting room at six in the morning filled with several detoxing mass murderers awaiting a drug screening. When it was my turn, as it were, a scowling lady handed me a plastic cup and pointed to a small bathroom located directly behind a desk seating around 300 women. In my usual suave manner, I proceeded to drop the cup and run out of the office crying for my mommy.
So anyway, I was prepared for the worst last week when we brought Michael in for testing. It turns out I had no need to worry. The tests were done in a large open section of the school by several very nice therapists. Michael thoroughly enjoyed himself. The post-test interview contained very few surprises. Michael showed some delays in several of the categories, and they want him to undergo further evaluations in a couple of weeks.
If he continues to show delays, then he will qualify for a special preschool where trained teachers will work with him and his "satanic screaming fits," should they occur. This will save him from getting into trouble every day and being labeled as a "bad" kid. It should be noted that Michael is not a "bad" kid. Far from it. He's actually a pleaser, who never intentionally gets into trouble. He merely gets overstimulated in group situations and loses control. There is a huge distinction here. He is not the kid who pulls hair and throws things against the wall simply to be mean. He is always very well behaved until the overstimulation kicks in. Sadly, it is something that unless you have a child with this problem, you might never adequately understand.
Now we enter the twilight zone portion of the story. It should be noted that this very detail that I am about to describe is what separates my life from many others. When all appears well, there is always a catch.
After arriving home with our spirits soaring, April took a moment to review the sheets of information the school provided. One of the sheets contained all of Michael's personal information. On the "date of birth" line it read - July 23, 2003. A full year before Michael was actually born! His age did not read 3.5 as it should, but rather 4.5. So it appears they thought he was nearly five years old! Why they didn't rate him as borderline mentally disabled, I will never know.
We plan to call the school today, so check this site for further updates!
For now, this is your 56-year-old buddy Dave signing off!
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
A few months ago we had Michael evaluated by a pediatric specialist, and he chose the term "pervasive developmental disorder" to describe Michael's behavior. Apparently he opted against my very technical term of "satanic screaming fit." I was rather proud of this description, but apparently the good doctor disagreed. A guy gets a degree and he thinks he knows things!
Anyhoo, we took Michael to a local elementary school for evaluation by the school district. Michael ventured off with several therapists for some one-on-one testing, complete with a hearing test, vision test, etc. They warned us beforehand to "be prepared," and that it might get "a little crazy" with all of the kids waiting to be tested. Now, I should say that I have a very loud internal alarm that sounds whenever I hear the phrase "it might get a little crazy" regarding testing.
You see, I was forced to undergo fertility testing when we were attempting to bring forth life into this wonderful world. I had extensive knowledge of this testing procedure, having watched several episodes of "Friends," and "All my Children." I knew all about the nice cushy rooms filled with "adult entertainment" that I could utilize at my leisure.
What I didn't know is that this is all a huge crock of you-know-what. In real life I found myself rushed into a crowded, dingy waiting room at six in the morning filled with several detoxing mass murderers awaiting a drug screening. When it was my turn, as it were, a scowling lady handed me a plastic cup and pointed to a small bathroom located directly behind a desk seating around 300 women. In my usual suave manner, I proceeded to drop the cup and run out of the office crying for my mommy.
So anyway, I was prepared for the worst last week when we brought Michael in for testing. It turns out I had no need to worry. The tests were done in a large open section of the school by several very nice therapists. Michael thoroughly enjoyed himself. The post-test interview contained very few surprises. Michael showed some delays in several of the categories, and they want him to undergo further evaluations in a couple of weeks.
If he continues to show delays, then he will qualify for a special preschool where trained teachers will work with him and his "satanic screaming fits," should they occur. This will save him from getting into trouble every day and being labeled as a "bad" kid. It should be noted that Michael is not a "bad" kid. Far from it. He's actually a pleaser, who never intentionally gets into trouble. He merely gets overstimulated in group situations and loses control. There is a huge distinction here. He is not the kid who pulls hair and throws things against the wall simply to be mean. He is always very well behaved until the overstimulation kicks in. Sadly, it is something that unless you have a child with this problem, you might never adequately understand.
Now we enter the twilight zone portion of the story. It should be noted that this very detail that I am about to describe is what separates my life from many others. When all appears well, there is always a catch.
After arriving home with our spirits soaring, April took a moment to review the sheets of information the school provided. One of the sheets contained all of Michael's personal information. On the "date of birth" line it read - July 23, 2003. A full year before Michael was actually born! His age did not read 3.5 as it should, but rather 4.5. So it appears they thought he was nearly five years old! Why they didn't rate him as borderline mentally disabled, I will never know.
We plan to call the school today, so check this site for further updates!
For now, this is your 56-year-old buddy Dave signing off!
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
The longest blog posting imaginable
Sheesh! It's been a while since the last posting. I guess when you combine Christmas, my sister's birthday, my anniversary, New Years Eve, New Years Day (also known as Football Day!), my grandpa's birthday, and a week-long please-kill-me-now cold, time seems to fly a wee bit.
What are ya gonna do?
Hope all had a wonderful holiday season. There were plenty off good times in the Ward castle. We started off with Winter Solstice at our church. I had the distinct honor of "smudging" people. Not as fun as one might envision, but still a fun time. Solstice is always my favorite ceremony of the year. A night to cast out all thoughts of materialism, greed and other holiday "cheer," and simply focus on the light. A night of meditation, reflection and drawing positive energy to bring forth into the new year.
My parents hosted Christmas festivities, featuring the predictable onslaught of gifts for little Michael. We headed home in a car stuffed with hockey nets, hockey helmets, hockey jerseys and a John Deere tractor. Just the thing for any aspiring hockey player/farmer! The true highlight of the season, however, featured a beautiful essay composed by my sister, Melissa, entitled "The True Sense of Christmas." It was a wonderful jaunt down memory lane that brought tears to the eye and tissue to the noses. Simply a remarkable work that everyone in the family will always treasure.
We celebrated Melissa's birthday at our favorite Italian joint in Eagle. Apparently Melissa and my Mom enjoyed a few refreshments before arriving, so it was a lively dinner! As usual, April and I spent most of it pleading "Michael stop that. Come back!," as the little three-year-old jaunted around the table laughing. Grandma and Grandpa provided their usual assistance with gems like "Oh, it's all right! He's okay!"
It should be noted we've never actually been banned from any restaurants. Although the waitresses always recognize us, even if we only go into the establishment once or twice a year. That's my boy!
April and I enjoy a happy, wonderful marriage (at least that's my side of the story!). However, we have extremely bad luck during our anniversary. A few years ago I planned an entire romantic evening, complete with a fancy dinner and a nice bottle of wine. I was going to be mister suave, the bleeding-heart romantic. What I actually ended up doing was puking my guts out the entire day. It seems I came down with a severe case of food poisoning on our special night. The lesson, as always, is never eat a burrito at a supermarket.
This year we had further bad luck. We returned home from Christmas with the usual "lets unpack everything and try to relax while our super-excited three-year-old trashes the house with his new toys," routine. In our exhaustion, we failed to realize that our cat was nowhere to be seen. After a day or two, it finally dawned on us that Smores was indeed missing in action. This is nothing new, however. Smores, like most cats, is a master at beaming herself to a parallel universe for a day or two, and then lazily reappearing on the kitchen table.
This time we found her curled up in Michaels' playroom in extremely bad shape. She could barely move or respond, and she looked like she hadn't eaten anything for several days. We rushed her to the vet, where they announced that she had suffered complete kidney failure. April took her home with a small hospital in the trunk, complete with IV bags, pills and special food. The plan was to give her IV fluids two to three times per day, and force her to eat pills roughly 350 times a day. April and I joked we were becoming the "cat lady" on The Office.
Not surprisingly, Smores wanted no part of this operation and refused all medical treatment. The only other option was to hospitalize her. Now, I love Smores. She's been with me through my entire adult life. I can still remember the first time she ran up to me in front of April's house in Pocatello. I was a scruffy 19-year-old, and she was Queen of the Poky street cats. She basically decided that I was going to adopt her. No question about it. She even told me so, right then and there. Along with several other stories that I couldn't understand, but knew must be very serious.
When April and I finally moved in together during college, Smores came as well. Together we traveled through the Rocky Mountains and ventured through the Arizona desert. Smores was there every step of the way, bellowing out her endless string of stories.
Smores was always my confidence booster. Whenever I felt like a moron, which was most of the time actually, I just looked over at my supremely confident cat and thought to myself "well if she's so damned sure of herself, I can be too." A simple stare could bring down empires. If you didn't agree with her, well then you were just too stupid to matter!
She was also my lap warmer. Countless evenings I would be sitting on the couch, minding my own business, when I would notice my lap was getting warmer and vibrating. I would look down to find Smores having materialized from her parallel universe onto my lap, purring like she's been there her entire life.
Well, it was one of the hardest decisions April and I have ever made, but we finally realized that embarking on a version of "Pet ER" wasn't going to work. For us or for Smores. We decided to send Smores to "a nice farm in the country." I miss her terribly, but I realize it was the right thing to do. No animal should suffer needlessly. She lived a very wonderful life and realized her dream of rising from the streets to become "Queen of the World."
Goodbye Smores! The world is a much less interesting place now.
This happened the day before our anniversary. April and I celebrated our number seven, but it wasn't a grand affair.
A short time later, April, Michael and I all caught nasty colds! We've spent the past two weeks emptying kleenex boxes and snorting Zicam. Living the dream, as it were!
So thus concludes the longest blog posting imaginable. A little diddy combining the celebration of life with the agonizing task of saying goodbye.
If you're still reading this, please douse yourself with ice water immediately and head to the store for some caffeine pills. Just make sure you stay away from the burritos!
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
What are ya gonna do?
Hope all had a wonderful holiday season. There were plenty off good times in the Ward castle. We started off with Winter Solstice at our church. I had the distinct honor of "smudging" people. Not as fun as one might envision, but still a fun time. Solstice is always my favorite ceremony of the year. A night to cast out all thoughts of materialism, greed and other holiday "cheer," and simply focus on the light. A night of meditation, reflection and drawing positive energy to bring forth into the new year.
My parents hosted Christmas festivities, featuring the predictable onslaught of gifts for little Michael. We headed home in a car stuffed with hockey nets, hockey helmets, hockey jerseys and a John Deere tractor. Just the thing for any aspiring hockey player/farmer! The true highlight of the season, however, featured a beautiful essay composed by my sister, Melissa, entitled "The True Sense of Christmas." It was a wonderful jaunt down memory lane that brought tears to the eye and tissue to the noses. Simply a remarkable work that everyone in the family will always treasure.
We celebrated Melissa's birthday at our favorite Italian joint in Eagle. Apparently Melissa and my Mom enjoyed a few refreshments before arriving, so it was a lively dinner! As usual, April and I spent most of it pleading "Michael stop that. Come back!," as the little three-year-old jaunted around the table laughing. Grandma and Grandpa provided their usual assistance with gems like "Oh, it's all right! He's okay!"
It should be noted we've never actually been banned from any restaurants. Although the waitresses always recognize us, even if we only go into the establishment once or twice a year. That's my boy!
April and I enjoy a happy, wonderful marriage (at least that's my side of the story!). However, we have extremely bad luck during our anniversary. A few years ago I planned an entire romantic evening, complete with a fancy dinner and a nice bottle of wine. I was going to be mister suave, the bleeding-heart romantic. What I actually ended up doing was puking my guts out the entire day. It seems I came down with a severe case of food poisoning on our special night. The lesson, as always, is never eat a burrito at a supermarket.
This year we had further bad luck. We returned home from Christmas with the usual "lets unpack everything and try to relax while our super-excited three-year-old trashes the house with his new toys," routine. In our exhaustion, we failed to realize that our cat was nowhere to be seen. After a day or two, it finally dawned on us that Smores was indeed missing in action. This is nothing new, however. Smores, like most cats, is a master at beaming herself to a parallel universe for a day or two, and then lazily reappearing on the kitchen table.
This time we found her curled up in Michaels' playroom in extremely bad shape. She could barely move or respond, and she looked like she hadn't eaten anything for several days. We rushed her to the vet, where they announced that she had suffered complete kidney failure. April took her home with a small hospital in the trunk, complete with IV bags, pills and special food. The plan was to give her IV fluids two to three times per day, and force her to eat pills roughly 350 times a day. April and I joked we were becoming the "cat lady" on The Office.
Not surprisingly, Smores wanted no part of this operation and refused all medical treatment. The only other option was to hospitalize her. Now, I love Smores. She's been with me through my entire adult life. I can still remember the first time she ran up to me in front of April's house in Pocatello. I was a scruffy 19-year-old, and she was Queen of the Poky street cats. She basically decided that I was going to adopt her. No question about it. She even told me so, right then and there. Along with several other stories that I couldn't understand, but knew must be very serious.
When April and I finally moved in together during college, Smores came as well. Together we traveled through the Rocky Mountains and ventured through the Arizona desert. Smores was there every step of the way, bellowing out her endless string of stories.
Smores was always my confidence booster. Whenever I felt like a moron, which was most of the time actually, I just looked over at my supremely confident cat and thought to myself "well if she's so damned sure of herself, I can be too." A simple stare could bring down empires. If you didn't agree with her, well then you were just too stupid to matter!
She was also my lap warmer. Countless evenings I would be sitting on the couch, minding my own business, when I would notice my lap was getting warmer and vibrating. I would look down to find Smores having materialized from her parallel universe onto my lap, purring like she's been there her entire life.
Well, it was one of the hardest decisions April and I have ever made, but we finally realized that embarking on a version of "Pet ER" wasn't going to work. For us or for Smores. We decided to send Smores to "a nice farm in the country." I miss her terribly, but I realize it was the right thing to do. No animal should suffer needlessly. She lived a very wonderful life and realized her dream of rising from the streets to become "Queen of the World."
Goodbye Smores! The world is a much less interesting place now.
This happened the day before our anniversary. April and I celebrated our number seven, but it wasn't a grand affair.
A short time later, April, Michael and I all caught nasty colds! We've spent the past two weeks emptying kleenex boxes and snorting Zicam. Living the dream, as it were!
So thus concludes the longest blog posting imaginable. A little diddy combining the celebration of life with the agonizing task of saying goodbye.
If you're still reading this, please douse yourself with ice water immediately and head to the store for some caffeine pills. Just make sure you stay away from the burritos!
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
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